And When She Was Good
by fulfilled
Summary: She needs someone to point the way home, and he remembers what it feels like to be lost. Rory and Jess redefine a friendship. A sequel to 'U Turn,' set during 'Let Me Hear Your Balalaikas Ringing Out' and following.
1. This Is Your Life

**Summary:** She needs someone to point the way home; he remembers what it feels like to be lost. Rory and Jess redefine a friendship. A sequel to "U-Turn," set during "Let Me Hear Your Balalaikas Ringing Out" and following. 

**A/N:** Many thanks to **adina** for the beta and for always being on the same wavelength.

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**1: This Is Your Life**

It's like herding cats. Pointless. Rory doesn't even know why she tries anymore—it hits the breaking point about two drinks into the night, which, these days, comes earlier and earlier. After that, it's just not fun anymore. After that, she cringes and sinks deeper into her seat with every drink they take, wishing the whole time that, just for once, someone else could be the designated driver. How she, the one without classes or responsibilities, ends up as the sober one every single time is beyond her. More than anything, it's a testament to the guys' combined powers of persuasion.

So she ends up trying to stuff them into the car and keep them there long enough to drive away. If anything, she thinks, wrestling with all of them burns off the calories from her one drink, much earlier in the evening.

It's the same thing, week after week. Fridays, Saturdays, most Thursdays, some Tuesdays, she drives them to their respective apartments, always in the same order. Colin first, then Finn, and finally Logan. It's the most logical route home, and if she ends up staying over, it makes the most sense.

Lately, though, she's been dropping them all off and then heading back to her room in Hartford. Sleeping in the same bed as a drunk Logan isn't on the top of her list of "ways to get a good night's sleep." He flops, he snores, and in the morning, his breath stinks, and even with all that, morning is the least of her worries. He wakes up from his stupor with a surprising absence of a hangover, so at least she doesn't have to worry about him being a baby because of his pounding head.

No, the real problem in sleeping with a drunk Logan is just that—sleeping. He gravitates towards her during the night all the time, but when he's drunk, it's a heavy, sweaty… glomming, for lack of a better word, onto her. He thrashes, keeping her awake, and when he's still, he's right on top of her, glued to her with sweat.

So, these days, she stays at his apartment on the nights when he has class the next morning. Sunday, Monday, most Tuesdays, Wednesdays, some Thursdays. As often as she can, really, without raising her grandmother's suspicions.

Those nights, they curl up close, wake up entwined, and it's anything but smothering. Those are the nights when Rory sleeps best, when she catches up on all the sleep she misses over the weekend. Those mornings, he wakes up relatively early, and most of the time, she wakes alongside him and heads straight to the DAR office. It's refreshingly normal, and it makes her forget how much she hates the other nights.

When she sleeps, really sleeps, on those nights, it erases the frustration and futility of the weekends and gives her the stamina to last through another few days. Not just another few days of a drunk Logan, but also of the inane chatter at the DAR office, Emily's not-so-subtle attempts to control her life, the lack of mental stimulation that comes with a "break" from school, and the nagging feeling that she should be somewhere else. Most of all, the nights that she sleeps with him, it puts her into a deep enough sleep to be uninterrupted by the constant tossing and turning and restlessness that plagues her nights in her own bed.

That kind of sleep is still a few nights away, though. Tonight, she gets the distinct privilege of dealing with all three of the boys in their usual Friday-night state. Juliet and Rosemary are, as usual, no help—they never stick around long enough to get the boys home. They stay for the drinks and the beginning of the Rory Show, and then they leave halfway through, leaving her alone with a grand total of five times her own body weight to manoeuvre into the car and get home safely.

"Rory Gilmore, this is your life," she thinks, herding a stumbling drunk Finn into the back seat. As she pushes Colin in behind him, he turns a little bit green and sucks in a sharp intake of breath. "No, not again…" she thinks. For guys who can supposedly hold their liquor, she (not to mention the interior of her car) has had more close calls than she cares to admit.

The look on Colin's face passes, and she pushes him in, thankful for another averted crisis. Driving them is one thing; being the designated puke-mopper-upper is quite another.

"Thank goodness for childproof locks," she mutters, watching Finn jiggle the handle as she chases after Logan, who drapes himself all over her as soon as she touches him.

For the thousandth time this month, she tries to picture her life without him—without this literal weight draped across her shoulders—and all she sees is quiet. Silence. Without her mother's constant banter and jokes, without the ongoing rhythm of a professor's lecture, without the soundtrack of Stars Hollow's festivals and life playing in the background, her life is already too quiet. If she takes away Logan's voice, there will be nothing left to fill the deafening void, and that's a thought that scares her more than the thought of dragging him to the car, night after night.

Her life reminds her of that nursery rhyme: "And when it was good, it was very, very good; and when it was bad, it was horrid." On nights like tonight, she doesn't think things can get much worse, but three days from now, when she and Logan are having a their version of a movie night (one that doesn't quite live up to the original Gilmore Movie Night, but it's a close second), she'll be convinced that it can't get any better than that. When the whole group is out some evening, eating dinner and planning some elaborate, good-natured prank, she'll be glad that there are people like this to fill her life and be there for her in a pinch.

Logan's feet start to drag, and she almost doubles over from the weight of carrying him. She wraps an arm around his waist and nudges his feet forward with hers, prodding him one step at a time towards the car. It's slow going, but at least it's easier on her back, and maybe she can delay being a hunchback for a few more years.

It's a constant cat-and-mouse chase, this game that they play, and she isn't surprised in the least that Colin and Finn have left the car by the time she stuffs Logan into the front seat. Most of the time, she's convinced that they're more cognizant than they pretend to be—this is all one big joke to them, and she's the only one dumb enough to play along for so long.

"Colin! Finn!" She runs after them, leaving Logan muttering about Omaha. She'll deal with him later, once she drops the other two of. Right now, she just wants to keep them all in the same place at the same time. She'd be tempted to just leave the others behind, but that usually ends with bailing them out of some police station or jail cell or another, and she's learned from experience that it takes much less time to just get them all home in the first place.

Half an hour later, Logan is finally the only one left with her, and the car has, once again, miraculously avoided any damage from any unidentified body fluids. She puts the car in park, prepared to just let Logan out and then leave, but he reaches over and turns the key.

"Come in, Ace," he says, pulling the key out of the ignition and putting it in his pocket.

"I can't stay tonight. You know that. You're leaving in the morning." She reaches across and tries to pull the keys out of his jacket.

He grabs both of her hands, holding them out of reach. "Just for a few minutes."

"Fine." She follows him up the stairs, which, by this time, he's pretty much able to navigate on his own, and lingers a step behind him as he unlocks the apartment. He takes her hand, pulling her inside the door and across the room, and they collapse onto the couch in a heap, her legs draped over his lap and her head resting on the back of the sofa beside his shoulder.

"I don't wanna go," Logan mutters into her hair, pulling her tighter. Rory leans into him. This isn't the usual Drunk Logan; this is a Logan that she's only seen once before—the night after the yacht incident and her revelation of his father's part in all of it. This is the Logan that appears when even alcohol isn't enough—when reality is too sober to withstand a night out with Colin and Finn.

"I know you don't," she replies. "You've made that very clear—I think the whole bar knows that you don't want to go to Omaha."

He leans back, flopping his head dramatically against the back of the sofa, spreading his arms wide across the top. "No, Rory, I ireally/i don't want to go."

"Can't you just go and make him happy, appease him for a few days, and then come back and forget the whole thing?" Even as the words come out of her mouth, she knows it's not an option, but she has to try, and it's getting harder and harder to come up with ways to encourage him.

He rolls his head from side to side in a defeated shake and closes his eyes. "It's not that simple. This isn't just a one-time deal; this is the rest of my life. It starts with these two-day weekend trips across a few states, and by the time I graduate, he'll have a position lined up for me somewhere, most likely in some backwoods town like Omaha or Topeka or somewhere. For all I know, this trip will be spent scouting an apartment in Omaha where I'll spend the rest of my life, only flying back to appear at his pre-approved social engagements." He wraps himself around her again, folding inwards as if he's trying to be his own shield against whatever Mitchum throws at him. "I can't do this, Ace."

"Yes, you can," she sighs, tired of being his babysitter and cheerleader tonight, wanting to go home and get some sleep. They can pick this up in the morning. They'll talk while he's in Omaha, or they'll talk when he gets home; either way, this is better dealt with later. Right now, her brain goes on auto-pilot, reassuring him with the same words she's used a thousand times before. "You're good. You've got what it takes to prove it to him."

And that's what makes this whole thing so damn unfair. He idoes/i have what it takes—she's seen what he can write, and she knows that he's got the leadership skills and charisma to do the job. When he has those moments of transparency, he confides that he loves to write, and that if his father was anyone else, he would probably be chasing down this exact career path, in much the same way that Rory is. Was. She doesn't even know what tense she should be thinking in anymore.

So she transfers her energy to his path, hoping to live vicariously through his journalistic successes, trying with everything in her to make him see that if he would just embrace it, he could finally do something with the potential that everyone keeps haranguing him about.

"You know you can do it, Logan. I know you can do it." She runs a hand through his hair, and leans on his chest, choosing to inhale the smoke that lingers in the fibers of his shirt rather than the beer that's still on his breath.

A sad smile crosses Logan's face and he rests his forehead against her shoulder. "If only, Ace." He kisses her lightly and stands again, pulling her up with him. "You should go home," he says. "I have to be on a plane in a very few short hours, and you have some gala or another that desperately needs planning."

Rory wrinkles her nose at the DAR reference and wraps her arms around his waist, leaning her head on his chest briefly. "Try to have a good trip." At his single snort, she modifies her statement. "Well, try not to have a completely miserable trip. We'll do something when you get back," she says, reaching up to kiss him once more, lightly, before she leaves the apartment, closing the door softly behind herself.

Driving home, she turns up the music, trying to drown out the competing voices in her head. She loves him, and right now, that's what matters—she needs to be there to help him through it, just like he's been through this hell of a six months. A few days apart will do both of them a world of good, and when he comes back, she'll have missed him enough to be carried through another week.

"Soon," she thinks, pulling into her grandparents' driveway. "This won't last forever."

As she parks the car, gets out, and checks the lock, a motion catches her eye. She pauses, but it stops, so she turns around, heading towards the front door. The second time, the noise is unmistakeable—footsteps crunching on the cobblestone driveway.

This time, as she turns, she sees the figure detach from the individually indistinguishable shadows of the trees and move towards her.

A running commentary in her mind tells her that she should be, at the very least, cautious, if not afraid, but some innate sense overrides that, and even before she knows who it is, that sense keeps her from being frightened. And then he steps into view, out from behind the trees.

Rory recognizes him instantly, yet her mind takes a few seconds longer than her gut to react. She stands, dumbfounded, taking in the dark hair and eyes (they always matched, but the hair is longer than she remembers), the jacket (it's new), the stance and gait (still the same), the time and location (what's he doing in the driveway in the middle of the night?). His expression becomes more and more amused as he watches her process his presence, and the longer she stares, the softer his features become.

Finally, she blinks a few times to clear her vision, and wills her mouth to say something.

"Jess?" Brilliant, Gilmore. How about, how are you? It's been a while. What's new? You look well. What the hell are you doing showing up in my driveway after two years?

"Hey."


	2. Alluding to the New You

**2: Alluding to the New You**

_Jess_

The highway between Stars Hollow and Hartford is fairly familiar, although the billboards have changed and a few of the landmarks have disappeared since the last time he drove this road. The music keeps him alert, and his mind is racing, wondering what's going to be awaiting him when he pulls into the driveway. He tries to prepare himself for anything, but there's just no way to know what to expect.

He had waited until Luke had closed up the diner and was cleaning up to ask about Rory. "I tried calling her old cell number, but it was disconnected."

"Jess…" Luke's tone had been wary.

"No, it's nothing like that. I just have something for her."

"Well, why don't you just leave it with me, and Lorelai can give…" Luke's voice had trailed off, and Jess had seen a shadow cross his eyes before he sighed and turned another chair onto the table. Jess had just waited—pushing wouldn't get him anything, he knew. Finally, Luke had spoken, without turning to face Jess. "She's living in Hartford right now—staying in her grandparents' pool house."

Jess had let the comment slide and checked his watch instead. 10:07. If he left right away, he'd be there well before 11:00. "Do you know whether she has class in the morning? Is it too late for me to stop by now?"

Luke had finally stopped putting the chairs up and had turned to face Jess, his eyes pained. "Jess…" he said again, his voice begging reconsideration, but Jess had held his gaze, refusing to back down. "Things are… complicated right now. Rory's having a hard time, I guess, and she hasn't talked to Lorelai in months."

And all the reasons for the strain that Jess had been seeing on Luke's face had fallen into place. Even now, half an hour later, reaching the Hartford city limits and winding his way through the darkened residential streets, Jess can't imagine what would bring things to this point. He does realize, though, that this has got to be hard on all of them, and clearly, Luke is bearing much of the burden, even if the women don't realize it.

He follows the directions scribbled on the napkin that Luke gave him on his way out of the diner and pulls into the circular driveway, driving around to the pool house. Both it and the main house are dark, though, and he doesn't see Rory's car—at least, the last car he remembers her driving—in the driveway, but he walks up to the pool house door anyways and knocks. No answer. He peers in through a window, but there's no movement, only stacks of boxes. She's either still out or already asleep, but Jess is guessing that she's still out, so he'll wait. He's got nothing better to do.

While he waits, he pulls one copy of the book out of a box and tucks it into his bag. It's a gift—one sacrificed copy that won't make it into a bookstore—and for the first time, it's pristine. The spine hasn't been broken, his handwriting doesn't mark up the margins; no pages have been dog-eared or bookmarked. For once, he doesn't have to put himself into it, because it's all him. For her, he knows that he'll be alive on every page, and she'll see more of who he's become than she ever did in the comments or the books that they shared before.

Headlight beams swing across the yard, blinding Jess momentarily, and when the spots fade from his vision, he checks his watch. 2:36. The car turns the other way around the circular driveway, ending up on the opposite side of the gate from where he's parked. He opens his door, picks up his messenger bag and slings it over his shoulder, and walks as quietly as possible to the gate, remaining in the shadows cast by the carefully shaped foliage.

The driver kills the engine, and the car sits, lifeless, for a moment before the door opens and she steps out, somehow the same, and yet even from this distance, he can see the difference in her face—the fatigue, the strain, the loneliness. Especially the loneliness. She's still Rory, though, and he's happier to see her than he thought he would be. Maybe he missed her? Or maybe he just wants her to see the new Jess—the better, more mature version of himself.

Rory shuts the car door and turns towards the house, and as she turns towards him, Jess steps out of the shadows and slips through the gate towards her.

It's his turn.

She stares at him for a long moment before speaking, her confusion registering on her face. He can almost see her brain working, trying to reconcile this person standing in front of her with who he was the last time she saw him. In a way, it seems like she's waiting for him to say something, to demand a conversation. He waits, though. This time, she can initiate their conversation, and he'll follow her lead. If she throws him out of the driveway... well, at least he tried. Somehow, though, he doesn't think that's going to happen. If it was, she would have started yelling at him by now.

"Jess." It's a question and a statement, all wrapped up into one.

"Hey." He takes a step towards her now that she's acknowledged his presence, and there seems to be no danger of being decapitated or yelled at.

"Hey." He can't get over how tired she looks, and not just because it's the middle of the night. The thing about Rory is that she has always managed to look good, no matter how life was treating her, but right now, he sees how much of a toll her life is taking on her. She doesn't look _bad_—far from it—but her eyes are dull compared to what he remembers. And maybe he's projecting the image of a past, lost love, but this goes beyond seeing her through the eyes of friendship instead of infatuation. This is something that would be (should be) obvious to anyone who takes the time to really look at her.

"I... uh..." she falters, clearly unsure of what to say to him. "Sorry. That wasn't a sentence."

He takes another step closer, tip-toeing carefully back into her life, one botched sentence and incomplete thought at a time. "It's okay, I got the gist."

Small talk kills him—he hates the social niceties that require him to comment on a person's hair, or clothes, or general well-being before he can get into a real conversation. Usually, he avoids it whenever possible, but tonight, he makes an exception. They chat about driveways and looking well and business and her grandmother, and somewhere in the middle of it all, he tells her that he wants to talk. That he has something to show her. And, surprisingly, she doesn't run away. She doesn't get the scared, deer-in-the-headlights look that marked the last two conversations they had, nearly two years ago now.

Jess smirks a little as they walk through the ornate foyer and down the lavishly, yet tastefully, decorated hallways. It's a far cry from the last time he was here, sporting a black eye and a bad attitude, but he has the strong feeling that if he were to come face-to-face with Emily Gilmore tonight, she would provoke him in almost exactly the same ways that she did three years ago. The biggest difference, he thinks, is that now, he knows enough to keep his mouth shut occasionally. But only occasionally—he doesn't want to have to put his post-Stars-Hollow self against someone like Emily quite yet.

He follows a few steps behind Rory, the lush carpet muffling their footsteps, as she leads him through the living room and up the stairs, following a twisted maze of hallways, past closed doors and heavy woodwork.

"You never saw this part of the house, did you? These are some long-dead relatives," she stage-whispers, gesturing to a painting on her left; then, a few steps further down the hallway, off to the right, "and these are some relatives that live in England, whom I've never met. Grandma wanted Mom and I to go visit them when we were in Europe, but we conveniently managed to 'lose' the addresses and phone numbers of every single acquaintance that they gave us. The list was three pages long! You'd think that for a family with as many only children as ours has, there would be a lot fewer relatives, but apparently the single-offspring trend began in the last two generations or so. Which means that everyone else is a second cousin twice removed, or a third cousin, or something else so distantly removed that I could marry them and it wouldn't make that much of a difference. Which is just creepy on every single level."

They turn a corner into a long, dark hallway lined with more paintings; this time, they are more likely to be of old buildings and other architectural "wonders" than of old family members. "The funny thing about it," Rory continues, "is that when Grandma and I went to Europe, she kept making all kinds of excuses to avoid visiting the same relatives that she tried to sic Mom and me on. She had the same list with her—all three pages of aunts and cousins and nephews—but we only went out for dinner with her sister, Hope. Other than that, the rest of the list got a phone call or an apology note, explaining why we were there, but weren't there to see them."

Her body is moving constantly, her feet taking the steps faster than they should, tiny steps that make it seem like she's running, dancing maybe, down the hall; her fingers are worrying at the edge of her sleeve, picking at a thread that's come loose from the seam running down her left arm. Her right hand alternates between smoothing down the front of her pink (red? brown? he's not sure) jacket and brushing her bangs back from her forehead, and she keeps turning around to look at him, as though she's making sure he's actually there. Or maybe making sure he's still there and hasn't run away since she last looked at him.

Rory opens a door, "Here we are" (is it his imagination, or does she sound ashamed of the room?), and he steps inside a chintz wonder world. Everything is pink and white and frilly and... there's a fireplace? And antique bedside tables? Where are the bookshelves, the Harvard-turned-Yale wall, the stacks of clothes on the bed, the cd player with stacks of cases piled beside it? Jess wasn't necessarily expecting her room to look like her teenage bedroom, but this is... not Rory. This is something completely foreign—this is a guest room, where he expects to find frilly towels and tiny bars of soap. It's the kind of room where you stay for a few nights while you're in town for a family reunion, not the kind of room you move into.

But he's got to say something. "Casa Rory," he says, in a light tone of voice, because they're still in the stage of the conversation that doesn't allow for much more than the basics. Unless he grossly underestimates her, though (and at this point in the night, he's not sure of anything anymore), she gets his mockery. Even though it was a lifetime ago, there are some undertones that are never forgotten, and the moment you hear that certain inflection again, it all comes back. And then she's putting pillows under the door, and he feels fourteen again, with the sneaking and the hiding and the tricks to keep the "grown-ups" from figuring things out.

He gravitates to the open binder on the small end table, hoping to see an article in progress, or some class notes, or a "to be read" list, or anything that lets him see that she's still herself. Instead, he sees... seating charts. Budget breakdowns with items like "ice sculpture" and "punch fountain" and "catering." Diagrams of banquet halls and notes detailing who is and isn't currently getting along with each other.

More small talk. The room, the dress, the job… all things that should have no bearing whatsoever, and yet, here they are, in the middle of the night, discussing the DAR. The Daughters of the American Revolution, of all things. It's enough to make Jess want to scream in frustration. This isn't Rory! This shell of the girl that she was isn't who she should be, and even though it's been two years, he finds himself sucked into caring again, wanting her to be okay.

He lets her off the hook in explaining things with Lorelai. He has the feeling that the story is too long, too complicated, too hurtful to get into right now, and he isn't here to hurt her. So, he throws Luke into the conversation, leaves the door open for later, lets her skim over the topic without delving too deeply. He knows, instinctively, that it's the best way to go right now.

Jess won't, however, let her get off easily on every count. "Isn't school in session?" he asks. Leading questions—seeing how much she'll tell him. How far she's willing to go to rationalize it away. "Why aren't you living on campus?"

"Because I'm…" she hesitates, and he sees the battle for truth in her eyes, "not going."

"You graduate already, Doogie!" Enthusiastic. Supportive. The proud friend.

"No, I'm just taking a little time off." Straightforward. No explanations, no lies. But she misses it, he can tell.

"Time off." He knows, of course. Luke alluded, remember?

Her demeanor changes with a conscious choice, a straightening of the spine and a shade pulled over her eyes, with a brightening of her face and smile on her lips. "So where are you living, Jess? I want to hear about you, Mystery Man."

And once again, he lets her off the hook. He knows her well enough (he thinks) to know that she'll think about it tonight, that a few well-placed comments are enough for now. He can't change everything, and he doesn't want to—he's not here to play saviour.

So they talk about Philly, and the press, and the job, and he pulls the book out of his bag, and watches her eyes light up for the first time—for real—all night, and she gushes her pride. It's over-the-top, and it's over-compensating for all the time they haven't spent together, but it's real, and he delights in that. He's glad to finally see the real Rory shining through the façade.

They talk, and he wants to sit there all night, catching up and reading the book together, sharing words, because that's what they share best, but he needs to go, and she needs to sleep, and besides, he values his life too much to be in the room beside Emily Gilmore's when she wakes up. So he leaves his words in her hands to be read without commentary, trusting that she'll see what he wants her to see, and leaves, promising to talk again tomorrow, implicitly promising to keep in touch and not let so many years pass this time. To make up, in some small way, for the heartache they've caused each other.

And, as Jess drives back to Stars Hollow, lets himself into the diner, and sits in the empty apartment, reading a book until he falls asleep, he does so with the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.


	3. Find it In These Words

**3: Find it In These Words**

_Rory_

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If not for the book in her hand and the pillow on the floor, Rory would be convinced that she had dreamed the entire thing. She even walks to the window to watch him drive away, just to make sure she's not hallucinating. It's like someone has taken the most incongruous parts of her life and mashed them together in one bizarre evening.

Jess writing a book—that, she can handle. It works; it fits her paradigm of what Jess does and how he acts. The image fits the picture of a grown-up Jess. The rest, though? Jess writing a book, promoting it himself, talking to Luke, hunting her down in Hartford, waiting in the driveway, talking like old friends, leaving with no harsh words or subtle barbs or broken hearts? Or, more frighteningly, Jess showing up, content, with his life together, while hers spins further and further out of control every day? That's a mental picture (one that has suddenly become a flesh-and-blood reality) without precedent or warning.

Rory turns away from the window and sits in the chair beside the fireplace. Ignoring the numbers on the clock that remind her how few hours are left before she needs to get up, she flips open the book, enjoying the faint scent of the binding glue and the crisp feel of unopened pages.

Receiving a brand-new book from Jess is a strangely foreign experience—every other book he has ever given her has been filled with his handwriting, challenging and questioning her on every page. This untouched book causes a twinge of sadness over one more area in which her life has changed almost beyond recognition. She can't help but wonder how it would have been different if they had, somehow, managed to work out their issues. If they had stayed in contact, at least.

Would she have read the scribbled drafts, seen printouts of each chapter, added her own notes and observations? The thought is strangely intimate, and Rory is struck by an overwhelming shyness about reading Jess' book. Jess' book. Not a copy of some impersonal, distant third party's thoughts, a series of pages that they can examine together. No, these are Jess' words—the ones that he deemed worthy of a fleeting immortality.

She opens the cover, not wanting to miss anything, looking for an inscription, an autograph... she doesn't know what... but the flyleaf is blank, and so is the title page. It's the next page that causes her to catch her breath, her own name jumping out at her as if branded in red-hot letters.

"To Luke, for never losing sight of who I could be, and to Rory, for being the reason I needed. For more than either of you know, and more than I will ever admit, thank you."

She reads it over and over, waiting for the words to fade and her mind to stop playing this trick on her, but they remain, black and bold and real.

So this is what Jess means when he says, "I couldn't have done it without you"? The words echo around the room, bouncing off the lampshade and the planning binder and the fireplace and the bedspread, and she wonders which "you" he couldn't have done it without.

I couldn't have done it without you, who would forego the obscene monkey lamp for these perfectly matched shades, straight out of an interior designer's portfolio. I couldn't have done it without you, whose paperwork now consists of party-planning and fundraisers that cost more to execute than they actually raise. I couldn't have done it without you, whose fireplace mantle holds nothing of who you are and no reminders of where you came from. I couldn't have done it without you, whose bedspread looks like the ones in the Inn—which is fine for an inn, but not for your bedroom.

Somehow, she doesn't think that's who he's talking about.

Rory untucks her feet from beneath her and lets them hit the floor sharply, sending small waves of pain up her shins. She can't read it like this—not sitting up properly in an armchair designed for a geriatric patient. She needs to get more comfortable.

She flops belly-down on the bed, legs bent at the knee, ankles crossed in the air behind her, propped up on her elbows, but the lace from the bedspread digs into her arms, and the pillows aren't squishy enough to lean against. She scoots down to the floor and leans against the door, placing the pillow that Jess left behind the small of her back, but that lacks the slightly illicit thrill of leaning against a hard bookstore wall, reading an unpurchased novel. Without that incentive, there's no reason to be that uncomfortable. She even takes the book in her hand and pads down to the living room, but doesn't even stop before dismissing that as an option and continuing out to the pool house, hoping to find some nook among the boxes stacked there. Even devoid of all her things, though, the pool house has too many ghosts, and Logan's presence lingers a little too strongly to be reading a book that Jess wrote.

Rory moves restlessly through the house, sneaking into the kitchen, opening and closing the refrigerator door, looking through the pantry, going into the bathroom and splashing some water on her face, pacing up and down the hallways furthest from her grandparents' bedroom. Finally, she returns to her room, tosses the book and her wallet into her purse—an older, smaller one, nothing so pretentious as a Birkin bag—and picks up her keys.

Careful to muffle the click of each door as much as possible, checking to make sure everything is locked, she leaves the house and gets in her car. The dashboard lights seem too bright as she turns the key, and the small clock glows 3:51. She's not going to sleep tonight, but that doesn't matter anymore, because she knows she wouldn't be able to, even if she tried.

She drives in no particular direction, turning corners and taking back roads at random, yet she knows exactly where she'll end up. And before she can come up with a solid argument to convince herself otherwise, she finds herself driving past the "Welcome to Stars Hollow" sign, her car winding through the familiar streets.

She drives slowly, thankful for the dark and the early hour. The streets are utterly deserted, and Rory doesn't feel like she needs to skulk and hide in order to avoid becoming the latest fodder for Miss Patty and Babette's verbal gossip rag.

Although the town is sleeping, Rory's mind fills each place that she passes with people, color, and activity. As vividly as if it was happening in front of her, she sees herself in third person, walking down the street with festivals springing to life, conversations taking place, and old friends greeting her. The troubadour sings his commentary; Luke rants; Taylor presides over everything; Sookie squeals and provides cookies; Lane captures the heartbeat of the town with her drums, Kirk seems to be everywhere, doing the everything and nothing that he does best; Mrs. Kim sermonizes; and Lorelai... well, Lorelai is walking beside Rory, arm in arm, taking in everything around them.

She has to shake her head to clear her vision and remind herself that it isn't real. There are no festivals going on, everyone is sleeping, and the only sign of life is a sign advertising a 40 off special on Halloween candy that has half fallen off Doose's front door and is fluttering in the breeze. No one knows she's here--when she leaves town, no one will be any the wiser, and she'll continue to be nothing but a ghost in her hometown.

One window above the diner is dimly lit, and as she drives past, seeing Jess' car parked outside, Rory wonders if he fell asleep reading, or if he's still awake--if sleep, for some reason--eludes him, too.

She avoids the inevitable for as long as possible, circling past the high school and the gazebo, and even as far out as the site of the Independence Inn before she stops thinking and lets her brain take the car on autopilot. She pulls up a half-block away from the front door and stops, just as the sky is beginning to lighten from black to grey. "This," she thinks, "is harder than I ever expected it to be," and somehow that admission makes her want to salvage what's left of her pride and run, as fast as she can, away from all these reminders of who she used to be.

Instead, she sits in the warm bubble of her car and watches as a light flicks on and Luke's silhouette passes across the front window, and then the first light goes off, and it's dark for a moment before a second one turns on.

She drives on when he crosses the window a second time, leaving before her resolve breaks and she bursts into the house, barging in on whatever moment her mom and Luke are in the middle of. Someday they'll talk—Rory's becoming more and more certain of that—but not now. There's already been too much to deal with today.

Her hand travels to the passenger seat, pulling the slim book out of her purse and flipping the pages with one thumb. Reaching the turnoff for the gravel road that leads to the bridge, she pulls off to the side and parks the car, turning on the dome light and reclining the driver's seat slightly so her knees have more space. She picks up the book again and begins to read, not looking up until the first sunbeam shines through the trees at exactly the right angle (no, she thinks, shielding her eyes, this is definitely the wrong angle) to hit her face.

She rubs her neck and blinks the spots out of her eyes. 6:33—she must have fallen asleep, but it couldn't have been for more than half an hour. She needs to get back to Hartford before she's missed. Not being there would raise more questions than she has answers for. And, after all that, she still hasn't finished the book—she doesn't think it's ever taken her so many failed attempts to get through 177 pages before.

Reluctantly, Rory bookmarks her page and puts the book back in her purse. As much as she wishes she could stay and finish it, she has the final meetings with the caterers and the decorating committee, and a budget meeting with the DAR executive—a group which unfortunately includes her grandmother. She has reasons to be in the office by 8:30, knowing that she would want a distraction to take her mind off Logan's trip, but now she would give anything to be able to go to Luke's for blueberry pancakes, bacon, and coffee, and then crawl into her bed and sleep all day.

But that won't work. She needs to be an adult. Rational, reasonable, and responsible. The three R's for the post-yacht era, ironically. And that means going to work and putting on a Russian Tea that they'll still be talking about months from now.

It's a fleeting immortality, that's all, she reminds herself. Jess' comes on the cover of a book; Logan's comes in a name that affords him every privilege. Hers? Well, hers comes in a series of parties that will be talked about amongst women with the collective memory of elephants. No detail, no matter how minute, is ever forgotten, and it's in their words—their primitive oral traditions wrapped up in pearls and designer suits—that Rory will find her immortality. The realization makes her want to sink into a deeper anonymity than she has ever known.

Rory starts her car and pulls out onto the road, stopping at the T intersection, even though there's no other traffic in sight. A left turn will take her through Stars Hollow, in view of whoever is up and starting the day, grounding her latest vision of the town in reality. A right turn will take her around the town, avoiding the prying eyes, but leaving her with only the unsettling ghosts of her drive through the night before.

Before she can make up her mind, a figure comes ambling towards her from the left-hand road. It moves slowly, head down, and as the person comes closer, she realizes that it's Jess, lost in a book (she cranes her neck slightly, but she's too far away to see the title), undoubtedly heading for the bridge.

Suddenly, the car feels too small, and the road is too narrow, and the town itself is too claustrophobic. She turns right, hoping to drive away before he sees her (she has the disconcerting feeling that he'll know exactly why she's here at six o'clock in the morning, which is more than she can say for herself), but when she looks in the rearview mirror, he's standing in the middle of the road, hands in his pockets, staring after her.

_tbc..._


	4. Not Here For This

**A/N:** Always, my thanks to **adina**. I can guarantee that this story wouldn't be what it is without her guidance and help.

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**4: Not Here For This**

_ Jess_

He sits at the bridge for several hours, losing himself in his book, enjoying the break. Not that he's tired of the promotional tour (if he can really call it a "tour"), per se; just that, for someone who was an afterthought for most of his life, self-promotion is a pretty strange (and, to be honest, exhausting) concept. And despite the November chill, he's more than content to sit outside, legs dangling over the edge of the bridge, the cold breeze threatening to rip through the pages faster than he can read, fighting to control the book.

When he returns, the early breakfast rush is dying down, and Luke clotheslines him with the telephone cord, holding up one finger, signalling him to wait. Jess sighs and pulls his book out of his back pocket, sitting on the stool closest to the cash register while he waits.

"They came in this morning," Luke is saying. "Yep, all of them. Yours too." He rolls his eyes at Jess, and Jess can hear Lorelai's distinctive voice coming through the phone, although he can't make out what she's saying.

"Yes, Lorelai, Paul Anka's came, too… I don't know if it'll fit him. You can put it on him later." Jess' eyebrows shoot up, and he mouths, 'Paul Anka?' to Luke, who rolls his eyes again and mouths back, 'Lorelai's dog,' before turning his attention back to the phone. "No, you can't bring him in here… No, I don't care if he's coming with us later; he's not coming into the diner! Not even to try on his shirt."

Jess unsuccessfully tries to hide his smirk behind the pages of his book. "Three thirty. If we leave here by three, we'll be there in time… See you then. 'Bye."

Luke hangs up the phone and picks up a cloth, wiping down the counter as he talks. "Don't you have more stores to take your book to today?"

"Paul Anka?" Jess responds.

Luke shoots him a look. "Books? Stores? Why are you here?"

"Well, good morning to you, too. Glad to see you had a good sleep, and are your usual chipper self."

Luke snaps at him with the towel. "Don't be a wise-ass, Jess. I'm just surprised to see you today—I thought you were leaving early this morning."

"I decided to stay an extra day. Thought I'd give you a hand in the kitchen if you need me." Jess slides off the stool and heads towards the stairs. "I'll be back down in a few minutes—I'm just going to shower and change."

"Did you see—" Luke calls after him.

"Yes," Jess cuts him off, not turning around.

"How is she?" It's a far more loaded question than Jess can answer in a sentence, if it was even a question he could answer at all.

He turns and looks at Luke, shrugging his shoulders. "I really don't know," he says, taking the stairs two at a time before Luke can ask him anything else.

When he comes back down twenty minutes later, an influx of customers has entered, so Jess finds a clean apron and starts making omelets and flipping pancakes, thankful that he can avoid Luke's pointed questions for a while. With Luke and Lane taking care of the dining room, and Caesar in the kitchen with Jess, there's no danger of talking while they work, either—Caesar couldn't care less, and Jess isn't going to try to initiate a conversation with him.

When things finally slow down two and a half hours later, though, it's Lane, not Luke, who pulls him into a corner of the kitchen.

"Did you see Rory?"

And this is why I stay away, he thinks—this unnatural interest in everyone else's life. Plus, for someone so tiny, Lane can be scary when she wants information.

"Why?"

"Well, it's your second day here. I haven't seen you for more than a day since Liz and TJ's wedding. I know they're not the ones keeping you here longer; you had to have at least tried to see her. Plus, Luke told me about your book."

This catches Jess' attention. "He did?"

Lane grins. "He's so proud of you—he's been telling everyone, whether they want to hear about it or not. I think he's just about ready to break his 'we don't sell anything but food' rule and put up a display of them in the diner."

Jess fights the urge to roll his eyes. Great—all he needs is to become the town's prodigal son returned.

"Jess?" Lane snaps him back to reality. "I know Rory, and I know enough about your relationship with her that I'm pretty sure you couldn't do something like this without telling her about it."

He knows he's not going to get out of this one. "Yeah, I saw her last night. We talked for a few minutes; we're going to grab dinner tonight."

Something painful and hopeful crosses Lane's face, but it's gone before Jess can identify it. "How is she?"

This is getting to be too much. "What, is she not talking to you, too?"

"No. I mean yes—she is, officially. She's talked to some of us, and the only one she's actually avoiding is Lorelai. But I don't talk to her much these days. She's busy with Logan and the DAR and her friends from Yale—the ones she still hangs out with, even though she's not there. I think they're mostly Logan's friends. And I've got Zach and the band, and I guess… we just don't get a chance to hang out as much anymore."

Jess rubs the back of his neck, trying to work out some of the tension that suddenly seems to have settled there. How did he get caught in the middle of this, anyways?

"She's…" what to say? "Geez, Lane, I don't know. I hadn't seen her in years; I talked to her for maybe fifteen minutes. We didn't exactly get into the intimate details. She seemed okay. Tired. It was two o'clock in the morning."

Lies fall too easily from his lips, but what else is he supposed to say? iShe looked awful, Lane. Her eyes were the loneliest things I've seen in a long time—and believe me, I've seen hopelessness and despair before—and her laugh would break if it hit the floor. I know she didn't sleep after I left, because I saw her roaming the streets of Stars Hollow at five thirty in the morning, and when I gave her my book, she tried so hard to be happy, but it was killing her, and even I could see that./i No.

Lane looks at him sideways. "Just… try, Jess. Please? This is too hard on everyone, and I don't know what else to do."

"Lane!" It comes out louder than Jess intends, and she jumps back, startled. "I can't do this!"

"Do what?"

"Any of it. I didn't come back to be her saviour, or her unrequited love, or the healer of all Gilmores' broken relationships. I went to see her to say thank you, and to be honest, I'm not even sure why I'm going tonight. We'll talk, we'll catch up, and if it comes up, I'll tell her that I think she's being an idiot, but that's it. I'm not getting in the middle of all this. I'm not going to be that guy."

He stops abruptly and tries to get past Lane, out of the corner, but she's laughing at him now, and that stops him. "What?"

"I think that's the most I've ever heard you say at one time."

Jess lets his expression soften slightly. "Yeah, well, don't let it get out." He flashes her a crooked half-grin and walks past her, grabbing a broom on his way back out to the front of the store.

"Jess?"

He stops, doesn't turn around. "Yeah?"

"She'll listen to you."

No. He doesn't need to hear that. "What makes you so sure?"

It takes a long time for Lane to answer, and Jess is ready to keep walking when he hears her, very softly, say, "She needs you to believe in her, because she believed in you, and it changed you."

He has no response to that, and Lane brushes past him, untying the strings of her apron and grabbing her purse from the small employee locker. "Luke!"

Luke comes around the end of the counter as Lane bursts out from the kitchen, and she almost loses her balance in the collision. Luke and Jess simultaneously, instinctively, reach out to grab her. "Sorry," Luke mutters.

"No problem," Lane grins. "I'm off—just wanted to remind you that I'm leaving early today." At Luke's blank stare, she says, "The band has that gig? Remember? I cleared it with you a couple of weeks ago? I'm leaving now?"

Luke's face is still puzzled. "Um, right. Yeah—go. Good luck? Break a leg?"

Lane laughs. "Yeah, good enough. Good thing Jess is here to cover for me, since you forgot to change the schedule." She pulls open the door, bells jingling, and calls over her shoulder, "Bye Luke; bye Jess."

Luke turns to Jess as the door closes. "I know I should have some idea what she's talking about, but I really don't. Between renovating Lorelai's house, and everything going on with Lorelai and Rory, not to mention dealing with that damn dog, it's a good thing the diner can almost run itself by now."

"Relax, Uncle Luke," Jess says, punching Luke's shoulder. Luke glares at him. "I've got you covered for the next…" he looks at his watch, "four hours. I've gotta take off around six thirty, but I can stick around here until then."

"Thanks—I've just got this thing to go to with Lorelai… I appreciate the help."

"Yeah, I've got it," Jess says. "When do you need to leave?"

"Twenty minutes or so. Lorelai's coming over from the inn, and we'll go whenever she gets here." Luke stops cleaning and looks over at Jess. "You're really okay watching the place for the afternoon? Even though it means you'll have to work the dining room, since Caesar's in the kitchen? And you'll possibly be seen by other human beings?" Jess just stares back wordlessly. "Huh," Luke mutters. "I've got to run upstairs before Lorelai gets here. You can start your afternoon shift now."

Jess picks up the broom and heads out to the furthest corner of the dining room, working around the two customers that are still picking at their lunch. As he sweeps, his mind begins to drift. He had forgotten how easily this kind of work facilitates a stream-of-consciousness type of thought, but two days back in the diner have quickly reminded him.

When he used to have this time to let his mind roam at will, what did he think of? Well, Rory, for one. How to escape Stars Hollow. What he was reading—what he had just finished reading—what he wanted to read next. What pranks he could pull to alleviate his utter boredom. What he left behind; what lay ahead, sometimes, but it wasn't until after California that "the future" became a real consideration.

He sweeps up the pile of dust and crumbs, hangs the broom and dustpan on the hook in the back room, and pulls a package of napkins from under the counter, starting to refill the dispensers.

It's amazing how some people have to take the long way around, he thinks. And yet, here he is, three years later, wiping the same tables and sweeping the same floor, and somewhere along the line, this has become the place to escape ito/i rather than ifrom/i.

Luke is still upstairs and Jess has gone into the kitchen, momentarily leaving the two anonymous customers alone in the front, when the bell above the door rings.

"Luke!" Lorelai yells, pushing aside the curtain and calling up the stairs. "Luke! We need to get going, or we're going to be late. Isn't it weird for me to be saying that to you? That never happens!" Jess comes out of the kitchen, but doesn't say anything—instead, he leans against the doorjamb as she blows through the diner.

"I'm taking a donut and coffee with me," she calls, slipping behind the counter and pouring herself a to-go cup. "I had to pop into the Inn for a few minutes—it's Saturday, so I wasn't planning to go in at all—and then a few minutes turned into three hours when Cletus and Desdemona decided to get up close and personal with our flower beds, and I had to talk the gardener down from a ledge, and then wait for someone to fix the corral fence, but it's just a temporary thing until you can get there are fix it properly." She pulls a paper bag out from under the counter and puts two donuts in it, chattering the whole time.

"Paul Anka really wanted to come with us, but something's still wrong with him, so I told him he needs to stay home this time. I really need to ask Kirk if any of the other dogs have been sick recently. I told him—Paul Anka, not Kirk—that he can come with us and wear his shirt next time, and that seemed to make him feel a little bet…" She stops, her voice trailing off as she finally notices Jess standing there.

"Jess."

"Hey, Lorelai." He doesn't move from his post in the doorway.

"Uh, how are… I wasn't expecting to see… Congratulations on your book," she finally says.

"Thanks."

"Luke told me you were here; I just didn't expect to see you… here."

"Yeah, well, the world's full of surprises."

She paints a smile on her face, obviously determined to at least be civil to him. "How long are you in town for?"

"Just today. I'm heading out tonight—told Luke I'd cover for him while you guys go… where are you going?"

Lorelai looks at him strangely. "Soccer game," she says slowly. "Luke's is sponsoring a team."

"Explains the jacket." Jess gestures at her blue and white sweatshirt with the matching baseball cap.

"Right." Lorelai is still looking at him as if he's grown a second head, but this—shattering her expectations of his usual monosyllabic responses—is kind of fun. Throws her off.

Now, though, she sets the coffee and donut down on the counter and walks towards him. When she reaches the far end, she sits on the last stool and rests her elbows on the counter. "Jess?" Her voice is softer, commanding his attention.

"Yeah?"

"Did you see her?"

Geez, what it is with this town and keeping track of Rory? Has he suddenly become the official liaison between Rory and everyone she loves but has managed to alienate? He's not so sure he wants the job—no, he's actually quite positive he idoesn't/i want it. But Lorelai is still looking at him with eyes that mirror Rory's, and he has to answer.

"Yeah," he concedes.

She sighs, buries her face in her hands, and mutters something under her breath, quietly enough to be muffled, but clearly enough that Jess hears her say, "And now she'll even talk to him before me."

He fights the initial instinct to be offended and pick a fight—you're not getting involved with this, he reminds himself—and stands silently instead, waiting for Lorelai to say or do something, to give him an indication of where this conversation is going to go.

After a moment, they hear Luke's footsteps stomping down the stairs, and she raises her head, runs a finger under each eye, and looks directly at him. She stands and picks up the coffee and donut, never breaking eye contact with Jess, and, as Luke pushes aside the curtain, says, "Congratulations again on the book, Jess. That's… really amazing. I'll have to read Luke's copy when he finishes with it."

"Hey—you ready to go?" Luke asks, pulling on the second arm of his matching jacket, giving Lorelai a kiss, and wrapping an arm around her shoulder to walk her out the door, all in one fluid motion.

"Yeah," she says, smiling brightly. "I was just catching up a bit with Jess while you were upstairs primping."

"Aw, geez," Luke says, pushing open the door, "I was not primping." Lorelai giggles. "See you later, Jess, and thanks again," he calls over his shoulder as they leave.

Jess stands, frozen, watching, as they get into Luke's truck and drive away. He has the strange feeling that far too many hopes are resting on his shoulders, and he's tempted to cut his losses and leave as soon as Luke gets back, but he knows he won't. He may not be officially involved, but all of a sudden, "not getting involved" feels too much like caring.


	5. Gumball Words

**A/N: ** Go hug **adina**, because without her, you'd be reading a lot more nonsensical, off-topic drivel. She makes it all make so much more sense.

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**5: Gumball Words**

_Rory_

She never used to spend this much time on her hair, but that's one of the hazards of growing up. Somewhere along the line, the plain, pulled-back ponytail stopped being good enough, and something more sophisticated took its place. Rory couldn't quite remember when, exactly, she had started pay more attention to her hair—it was probably a combination of her mother's innate sense of style, the hairstyles she saw around campus, and the ever-increasing number of "events" that she's expected to attend, between Emily and Logan's influences.

Rory does, however, remember exactly when the bangs were introduced. They happened during a spa day with Honor, one of their "let's leave Josh and Logan to play poker with the guys while we do something fun" days. Of course, if you asked the guys, they'd likely tell you that it was a "let's preserve our masculinity while our girlfriends gossip about us" day. Either way, Honor had convinced Rory to try the bangs, and while she still isn't sure about them all the time, she likes the variety they offer.

She stands in front of the mirror, holding them up, then down, then up, finally deciding to leave them down. Why is this making her so nervous? It's just Jess.

Right. Jess hasn't been "just Jess" in years. His presence, from the very beginning, is almost always fraught with some kind of emotional upheaval. When was the last time they even had a conversation that one of them didn't run away from? Senior year, sometime. Before that party, before California, before graduation, before Europe…

Rory focuses her attention back on the mirror. Right. Bangs down. She makes a mental note to call Honor about their shopping day next week, then reaches for her daytimer and writes herself a note. A mental note is bound to get lost, knowing the way her brain is jumping around these days. The "appointment"—massages, then lunch, and then shopping—has been booked ever since Rory started working on the Russian Tea (it was Honor's idea to pre-emptively schedule a day to recuperate from over-exposure to the DAR ladies), but Rory knows that she'll still manage to forget it if she doesn't write it down.

It's fun, if a little unconventional, their relationship. But Logan adores his big sister, and Rory has quickly learned to love her, too—she's just glad there's someone in his family that he wants to spend time with—and evenings out with Honor and Josh are the closest they get to a "normal" double date. All the other candidates are questionable at best; a recipe for disaster at worst.

Colin or Finn and either of their latest paramours? Better off as a group; they don't do the commitment required for an actual double date. Lane and Zach? As much as Rory loves her best friend, she knows that Zach would be uncomfortable, and it would defeat the purpose for Lane to play go-between all night. Paris and Doyle? Too much newspaper talk. Too stressful for all involved parties. Lorelai and Luke? Now that, Rory thinks, would be one way to attempt a reconciliation. Making up on a double date? That would be one for the record books. Anyways, after having all of those couples in the same room at her birthday party, she's surprised the earth is still spinning on its axis.

Rory glances at the clock. 7:35. She's ready earlier than she expected to be—maybe there's time to finish reading Jess' book before he gets here. The day at the office ended up being busier than she had planed, with an urgent fiasco regarding the band's costumes. It had taken all of Rory's willpower not to tell off the entire executive when they had called an emergency meeting to discuss whether the trim on the balalaika players' hats was too gaudy, but somehow, she had managed to keep her mouth shut. Until, that is, they started throwing around possible "solutions," including firing the band and hiring another (did they have any clue how difficult it was to find even one Russian musical act in Hartford!), commissioning new costumes, or forcing the band to re-trim their hats—at their own expense, of course.

Rory had finally stepped in and convinced them to just have the players go hatless, but by then, what should have been a four-hour morning, tying up the last-minute details, had turned into a full eight-hour day. Which had to a very cranky Rory, prompting her grandmother's comment of, "I just don't know what's gotten into you these days. You're as moody as your mother, and I just don't understand." It also meant, of course, that there was no time for a nap, or for reading the novel, or for any sort of mental preparation.

Maybe, though, that's a good thing—if she'd had the time, Rory probably would have tried to talk herself out of seeing Jess again. She even debates calling him to cancel last-minute, but realizes that she has no way of getting in touch with him—he didn't leave a cell number or an email address, and it dawns on her that she didn't give him her new number either. She'll make sure to get his contact information tonight.

Her stomach rumbles, and she realizes that it's been hours since she last ate anything substantial. Or maybe the unsettled feeling is just nerves, not hunger. Rory isn't sure. It's been so long since she actually planned to see Jess, she has no idea what it'll feel like. Lately (as "lately" as they get), every encounter has been the kind that sends her heart jumping into her throat and makes her stomach churn. Unexpected, out of the blue. Never prepared for.

Rory checks her makeup one last time, then checks her purse. Wallet, cash, i.d., lip gloss, cell phone. She's making a mental note of "safe" discussion topics. Jess' book… after that, she's drawing a blank. She can't talk about travelling to Europe—the first trip would bring up senior year; for the second, she'd have to explain Dean. And Dean is definitely out of the question. Yale's not an option, and neither are her activities for the last few months—which, by extension, includes Logan, the DAR, the yacht, her community service. Lorelai (and with her, Luke) aren't safe, either.

There aren't a lot of options left. She'll just have to ask a lot of questions; try to get him talking about himself. It's kind of a long shot—this is Jess, Mr. Monosyllable—but she really is curious.

Envious, actually, if she's being honest. He looks good. Not just physically (although it only took a minute to remember why she had been attracted to him all those years ago); it went deeper than that. Jess had a sense of calm about him that she's never seen in him before, and Rory wants to know the story—the whole story—as much for her own sake as for his. It's that quality that she's drawn to today. That's what made her agree to another meeting.

A grandfather clock strikes eight somewhere in the house, its muffled chime snaking through a labyrinth of hallways to reach her ears. Her fingers tremble slightly, involuntarily, as she buttons her jacket on her way out the door, but she tells herself that it's just because she's… cold. Yeah, that's it. "Cold." But even as she says it out loud, she laughs at herself. Her nerves last night, seeing him in her driveway like an apparition, had nothing on this.

"What are you doing?" She catches him in mid-toss, throwing pebbles at her window (and while he doesn't quite have the right window, in a house this large, she gives him credit for at least getting the one two windows to the right), and his silliness makes her calm down, just a little.

"I didn't know if it was okay to ring or not," said with a slightly impish grin. She reads his subtext as if he'd spoken it out loud: I just wanted to throw rocks at your grandparents' house. Don't you?

"She's not here," much to my everlasting relief, she continues in her head.

Jess, silly? The words sound wrong together, yet here he is, caught in the act of something that, under certain circumstances (not these!) could be construed as romantic; and in any circumstance, labelled as cute, and instead of getting angry or defensive, he laughs it off. Does a little hop-skip-spin (what the hell? Who are you, and what have you done with Jess Mariano?), and off they go.

She feels the weight of every word of these first sentences, every innuendo, heavy in her mouth. They roll around her brain—choosing words from a gumball machine—one phrase at a time rolling down the ramp and out. Spinning, colourful, rattling, each one tasted before she lets it escape.

"Even when I went to Chilton I got right on the bus and headed home, so I don't even have any old high school hangouts to revisit." Ah, there it is. The first subtle could-be reference. _I raced home because you were my after-school hangout._ Will he pick up on it? "And these days I've just been eating here."

"Well, I just prefer not going anywhere that has food in the title." He lets it slip by. Good. She needs to ease into the high-school reminiscing—if they get there at all. But Jess lightens his voice, she notices, and it scares her that he might still be just a little bit perceptive to her nuances.

They slide into an easy, friendly banter, and she begins to relax and forget that she's supposed to be nervous—she stops feeling like she should be logging every encounter with "the J word," and she actually enjoys being with just Jess. It's surprisingly easy, and she thinks that the nerves have almost completely disappeared, and this just might turn out to be the best evening in a while. The most relaxed, if nothing else. Massages and manicures with Honor have got nothing on this.

Jess doesn't fit into either category of people she's currently disappointing. He isn't someone from home, wondering what happened to the old Rory that used to live in Stars Hollow. He doesn't belong to the society set, the world that Logan and her grandparents belong in, where she constantly feels like she's trying to prove herself and her worth. He just… is. He has no context in the present, and maybe, for a few hours, she can just _be_, without a context, too.

And then the headlights swing across the driveway, blinding her momentarily, and the silver Porsche pulls into view and Rory thinks that maybe Jess hid his car after all, but not from the person he thought he needed to hide it from.

"Logan!"

"Am I interrupting something?"

"No." Not now. Please don't make a scene. "Hey, when did you get back?"

"A couple hours ago."

This isn't good—this monotone, this lack of the Huntzburger charm. Not the way he usually responds to first introductions. "I thought you were getting in tomorrow."

"Thought I'd surprise you, Ace." Logan's face is stony, and yet Rory can read each emotion etched into each feature. His jaw is set after a weekend of conflict, ready to take on the next person who crosses his path; the lines around his mouth betray his fatigue and the disappointment in losing an extra evening with her; his eyes have the unmistakable dullness of a weekend with Mitchum, sapped of their life and energy.

"Well, I'm glad you did, 'cause you get to meet my old friend, Jess. This is Logan, my boyfriend. Logan, this is Jess. He's in from out of town." Please, guys, shake and be nice. Say something civil; let me salvage some part of the evening, she thinks. This is disastrous; she can see written across both of their faces already.

So she does what a Gilmore always does in a situation like this. She babbles. "Wow. That sounded so grown-up. We're at the age now where we say things like 'in from out of town' and 'old friend.' 'Cause when you're young, all your friends are new. You have to get old to have old friends."

When Logan sticks his hand out in front of her face to shake Jess', she knows he isn't going to back down (from what! There's nothing to back down from!) without a fight. No, no, no, no, no, she tries to communicate telepathically.

"We were just going to go grab a bite to eat." 'Give me a few hours with no drama, and then I'll come over, and I'll make you feel better about your dad, and if you want, we can even call Colin and Finn and Rosemary and Juliet and whoever else you want, and we can go out and you can drink it all away. Just… let me catch up with Jess first. Let me hang out with an old friend and feel like the me that you never got to know.'

Logan looks past her, right at Jess. "Great, well, how about if we all go together. Is that okay?"

Rory changes her focus. Logan isn't catching on; maybe Jess will say something. Anything. Cancel their plans, and reschedule for another time, even. Tomorrow? She looks at Jess, pleading with her eyes, hoping that he hasn't been out of her life for so long that he can't read her any more.

He meets her eyes, and in that split second, she knows without a doubt that he knows what she wants him to do. He knows that she wants him to back out and reschedule, or to make an excuse for Logan not to come along, but he won't, and she knows it. It's an apology sent with his eyes, but she's not sure what he's apologizing for, or what he's trying to prove. This whole thing is turning into a power struggle that's literally going over her head.

"Okay by me," Jess says.

Disaster, Rory screams. Wait, that didn't come out loud? Too bad. Maybe a Tourette's moment, a la Lorelai Gilmore, would have been the diversion they needed to get this night even more derailed.

Instead, she finds herself saying, "All right. Good. We were actually at a loss for where to go, so you actually saved us." See, she can be civil and gracious, even in an awkward moment; why can't they?

The rock forming in the pit of her stomach grows, and she misses the rest of the exchange, but they must have worked out some details, because before she knows it, Logan's arm is around her shoulder, and he's guiding her to the passenger side of his car. It wouldn't be very appropriate to ask to ride with Jess instead of Logan, she supposes, but she has the sinking feeling that, by losing any one-on-one time with Jess, she just lost her chance to hear his real story (the one that she hopes will hold some hidden answers to her own twisted path).


	6. Safe in Any Storm

**A/N: **More thanks than ever to **adina** for this chapter--for talking me down from a ledge every single time I started to write, and then some!

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**6: Safe in Any Storm**

_Jess_

The air in the bar is stifling and the veneer over each of their tempers is paper-thin. The slightest provocation, and Jess knows things will go downhill fast, and he won't be responsible for any damage inflicted. The logical part of his brain tells him it's time to bow out gracefully—it's the same part that questioned the wisdom of keeping this "date" in the first place. He delivered the book; that's enough.

Another part of him wants to stay, just to irritate her boyfriend. He obviously doesn't want Jess there, but something about him makes Jess want to piss him off as much as possible.

The third, largest, part hopes that a shred of conversation can be salvaged, although that seems less and less likely. Still, ever since his conversations with Luke, Lane, and Lorelai, something has been nagging at him. He can't put a finger on what's wrong, exactly, but he can't shake the feeling that there's something more to say.

Laughable that he would be one to have advice for Rory Gilmore—but he doesn't want to give her advice. He's not a career counselor. Be a journalist, be a writer, work for the DAR, join the circus. Whatever. That's not the point. He just wants her to be happy. To see her do something that she truly loves. After all these years, he still has too much of an interest in her happiness, and he can see that she isn't. Anyone who really knows her can see that.

"So, how long have you two known each other?" Logan asks. Jess sighs. He's not in the mood to deal with a … jealous boyfriend? But that's the thing—Logan isn't really acting jealous; he's just being an ass.

"A while." This isn't his fight. Whatever Rory has—or (obviously) hasn't—told Logan is none of Jess' business, and he's not going to stir up trouble.

"You date?" He's not letting up, is he?

Jess can tell that Rory's frustrated, and he's pretty sure that, if he played a bigger part in her life and they weren't treading on such careful ground, both he and Logan would be getting their heads smacked together. "Yes. We used to date." She meets his eyes in an apology, but Jess looks away, not ready to make things that easy for her.

"Ah. No hemming, no hawing." Seriously. Who does this guy think he is? "Good course of action. So. Were you two high school sweethearts? Rock around the clock, two straws in the milkshake?"

Jess almost laughs out loud at that one. Obviously, Rory hasn't filled Logan in on her high school years—if she had, Logan would know that, if the all-American hometown boy was the threat, then Jess wasn't the one to worry about.

Rory groans and Jess can almost see her count to ten, trying to keep her composure. "Logan…"

Logan starts off on some other tangent, blabbering about something or another, and Jess responds mechanically, but this conversation doesn't require much thought. Instead, he starts calculating how many more veiled insults he can take before he has to leave. How much more of this conversation he can stomach, and the answer he keeps coming to has him leaving the bar before they even get to order, let alone eat.

He's good at distracting himself—he doesn't want to think about what it would say about him if he ran again. They're both good at running, though. Jess had thought about it, once upon a time, when he spent his nights reliving the image of her back, running away from him; replaying the sound of her voice echoing "No! No, no, no, no, no." Something inside of him had clicked, and he had realized that they had two options if they were ever going to work. Either one of them had to be an anchor for the other, or they needed to run in the same direction, pulling each other faster and farther.

It had taken him a long time to realize, let alone accept, that they fell squarely into a third category: one of them was always running from the other, and instead of anchoring each other down, they were pulling each other in opposite directions, doing more harm than good.

As Jess listens to Rory defend him to Logan, as he watches her eyes light up with the indignation, he wonders what the difference is between "anchored" and "bogged down." Where the distinction lies.

No, he didn't come here tonight to run, and he hates that it seems like he can't stop living up to the stereotype of himself and fulfilling the old expectations, rather than surprising everyone with new ones. If he doesn't leave now, though, he won't be responsible for what he does to Logan. Jess has been sizing him up all evening—they're about the same height, similar build. Jess is wirier and has slightly less bulk, but overall, it would be a pretty even match, and if this goes on much longer, Jess won't hesitate to throw the first punch.

It's not worth it, though. He's not fighting for the girl, and his dignity has taken worse shots than Logan's literary, pseudo-intellectual attacks. Logan isn't worth it, and Rory... well, she can learn that he's stopped running when they show up at the same Christmas dinner someday. Let her figure out for herself that things like family and connections have, at some point in the past few years, become important to him.

"You know," Logan is saying, "I should just write down all my thoughts and stuff that happens to me and conversations I have, and just add a bunch of 'he said, she said' and get it published. You got a copy on you?"

Hell, no. "No." They're all out in the car, and I can't be bothered to walk the twenty feet outside to do you any favors.

Jess clenches his fist, glances at Rory, takes a drink of his beer. He looks around, rolling his neck, trying to dispel some of the tension that has been gathering in his temples and at the base of his neck. For the first time since they arrived, he actually takes a second to look at the bar, taking in the scarred wood tables, the faux starving-college-student vibe, the brick walls, the funky neon light fixtures. If it wasn't for the company—half of it, anyways—he would probably actually enjoy hanging out here.

"You should send me a copy," Logan says.

"Where should I send it—the Blonde Dick at Yale?" Jess shoots back. This kid just proves why Jess doesn't like blondes. He's never dated one (because whats-her-face--Shane? doesn't count; it's not like she was a natural blonde anyways); he's never been friends with one. For some reason, they've just never gotten along, and while it's not the only reason he doesn't like Logan, it certainly adds to the visual.

Rory looks at him, begging him with the same eyes that she used to try and get him to say something when Logan invited himself along. "Jess…"

He has to leave. This has gone beyond an uncomfortable evening out, and he's not going to subject himself (or Rory, for that matter) to any more of this asinine behavior.

"Get out of my way." He picks up his jacket and walks out without looking at either of them—he'll apologize for leaving later, whenever he runs into Rory next.

The chilly night air hits him sharply and he shrugs his jacket on quickly, pulling it across his chest.

"Jess, wait." He stops and lets Rory catch up, turning to face her.

"We shouldn't have done this," he says, gesturing around—at the bar, in Logan's general direction, at the space in between them, whatever. Let her read into it what she will; he's beyond caring about her interpretations of his words. This whole evening has been an unequivocal disaster—Jess just wants to go home and forget it all happened, and he really doesn't want to hear the excuses she's starting to give him.

"I read that guy the second I saw him." He cuts off her apologies and excuses for Logan's behavior. "I should have begged off."

"Well, I didn't want you to!"

She just doesn't get it, does she? "What the hell is going on?" No—as soon as she starts talking, he knows that she really doesn't get it. Either that, or she's deliberately being obtuse. It's not about Logan anymore; this isn't about his drinking or his family or his bad weekend.

Something snaps, and all of a sudden, Jess couldn't care less about the 'proper' way to act. Being polite is overrated—now, for the first time, he clearly sees why everyone in Stars Hollow is so worried about her. "I mean with you," he explodes. "What's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?" He can see the false innocence written all over her face—'what do you mean, me? I'm not the one who's drinking or being rude to you. What are you getting upset with me for?'

Cut it out, Rory. "You know what I mean." She looks away, and he restrains himself from grabbing her chin and making him meet his eyes, like an adult would do with a child who won't pay attention. "I know you. I know you better than anyone. This isn't you!"

"I don't know!"

Right. And she's really delusional if she thinks he's going to let her get away with that. Not now. He's come this far with the conversation—there's no backing down now. "What are you doing? Living at your grandparents' place? Being in the DAR? No Yale…" the thought makes him angry. What right does she have to throw away a dream that so many other people have invested in? What right does she have to hurt—no, to devastate—her mother, and Luke, and the town, and all the people who believed in her along the way? Doesn't she know how much they've invested in her? "_Why_ did you drop out of Yale?"

"It's complicated!" she yells.

"It's not! It's not complicated!" He wants to shake her, to knock some sense into her

"You don't know!" Oh, so now she's going to act like a 14-year-old, slamming her bedroom door, and screaming that the world's not fair and no one understands.

"This isn't you! This! You, going out with this jerk, with the Porsche! We made fun of guys like this!" Why doesn't she get it?

"You caught him on a bad night." And now she's back to Logan. Does she honestly think that this is still about him? Geez, she's stupider than he thought—is it the blonde or the Porsche that's sucking out her brain cells? Or maybe it's the extended presence of Emily Gilmore, or a lack of the mental stimulation needed to decipher Lorelai's wit.

"This isn't about him! Okay? Screw him! What's going on with you?" He softens his voice a little—yelling at her wasn't in the plan, but she's just being so damn stubborn that he can't think of any other way to get through.

"This isn't you, Rory. You know it isn't." Somewhere, deep down inside, there's a spark of the Rory that he knew—he saw it last night; saw it behind the deep sadness in her eyes and the fancy hair and the designer clothes. "What's going on?" Come on, Rory. I'm asking you as a friend—as someone who remembers who you were and knew, better than anyone, who you could be. Answer me. Think about it. What's the matter?

"I don't know." She's defensive, accusatory; they both know that it's a lie, a cop-out. Jess looks at her, tilts his head, catches her gaze. She's not getting off that easily.

She looks at him for a long moment, and then wraps her arms around herself, closing in, trying to protect herself. "I don't know," she repeats. Suddenly, bravado gone, she looks very small and vulnerable, and Jess wants to wrap his arms around her and let her cry on his shoulder, or yell at him, or beat her fists against his chest, or whatever it would take to make it all better. He wants to be the strong one, because she looks like she's going to blow away, and she needs something solid to hold onto, something that will, somehow, keep her held upright.

"Okay." Before he can stop himself, he reaches towards her, but catches himself before he hugs her. Instead, he settles for a quick touch at her elbow, a conciliatory gesture. An, 'It's okay. I may not get it, but on some strange level, I do understand.' Can he convey all that in a simple touch? Maybe not, but it's all he can do. "Maybe… maybe we'll catch up at a better time." Why does this feel like some huge goodbye—the end of something?

He turns to walk away, leaving her standing alone in the cold night, wondering if he should say something more, do something more. If there's anything else he can do—this has, in the last five minutes, become a much more personal battle than it was a few hours ago. There's nothing more to be said, though—the nagging feeling from earlier, the one keeping him from leaving, is gone.

Halfway to the gate, he stops. There is one more thing—something he can't believe he almost forgot. "Happy birthday, by the way." She stares at him, like she can't believe he actually remembered. He couldn't forget, though; the date is burned into his memory, and every year, she crosses his mind more on that day than on any other. "Wasn't that a couple of weeks ago—your birthday?" Rory nods, a tiny movement of her head, almost imperceptible.

Jess smiles sadly at her, wishing there was more to say, knowing there's not. This is, for now, it. He's done what he can, and it wasn't because Lane asked him to, or because Luke is stressed, or because Lorelai is sad. He blew up at her, called her on her crap, because… because he can't stand the idea the she would walk away from herself. When it comes down to it, Jess knows that he'll always have a soft spot for Rory, and if he can be the one to beat her stupidity into her head—well, he's got nothing left to lose, unlike everyone else in her life.

He resists the urge to glance back one more time, and walks away for the first time in years without the pall of an unfinished conversation hanging over their heads.

_tbc..._


	7. Hard Won Silence

**A/N:** Have I thanked my amazing beta, **adina**, lately? Not enough? Well, she's an amazing beta and an even better friend, and she keeps me sane when my brain takes the story spinning on a hundred different tangents.

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**7: Hard-Won Silence**

_Rory_

Rory stares at the space where Jess was just standing, watching him walk towards his car. For a moment, she can't react—she stares into the cold night, willing her brain to process everything and make sense of this whole bizarre day, but none of the pieces fit together. Her brain is working at half speed, and she knows she should feel something besides this numb detachment, like she's watching someone else sit through it all.

All she knows right now is that, overwhelmingly, she's just angry with Logan. Until recently, she's rarely been embarrassed to be seen with him in public—he may do his share of stupid things, but they don't tend towards the socially awkward. Especially not when he's being introduced to someone new. For all the burdens put on him by his family, he has at least learned how to act like a Huntzberger in any company, but tonight… tonight, he seemed to forget everything that he was supposed to know about being polite.

Her eyes narrow and she turns on her heel, striding back into the bar; driven, purposeful, focused. She has no idea what she's going to say, but… something.

"You're not going to believe this," Logan says as she approaches the table, not seeing—choosing to ignore?—the expression on her face. "Over the music, the crowd, I hear one girl's voice cutting through it all—the folk singer. She's in the corner with her boyfriend. I sent them over a round of drinks. What the hell?" He doesn't acknowledge the fact that she's still standing. "He gone?"

"Yes." Her voice is terse, giving him every signal that this is not right, that all is not well in their world. "He's gone."

"Writers. They're so sensitive." He picks up his drink and leans back, ready to dismiss the entire visit—the entire incident—with another scotch.

Rory can't believe him. Nothing about the past few hours can be thrown away that easily, with just a very thinly veiled insult. "You were a jerk, Logan."

"I was just challenging him. Geez. Hey, if Hemingway could take it, so could he." Her mind immediately flashes to a long-ago discussion, and it surprises her that the mere mention of Hemingway can make her feel seventeen all over again. Rory wishes Jess was still here, if only to see him get into a debate with Logan over Hemingway. Now that would be amusing. "Hey, if he wanted to, he could've taken a pop at me. Pugnacity. It's a vital component in literary life. Again, consult your Hemingway."

She's not sure what's making her more upset—the fact that Logan is unknowingly referencing an old moment with Jess, or the fact that she just doesn't feel up to debating it the same way she used to with Jess. Or even the fact that she doesn't come up with the same comebacks to Logan these days. She's not the same. Nothing's the same, and why the hell is Hemingway triggering all this? She still hates Hemingway!

"Come on," Logan says. "Do not let this guy get to you."

Because _that_ would be easy, she wants to scream. Do you realize how many people said that exact sentiment to me when I was in high school? I couldn't do it then; I can't do it now. And "getting to me" may be different now than it was then, but if there's one thing Jess will always do, it is "get to me."

Instead, she surprises even herself with what comes out of her mouth. "You're getting to me!"

"Me?"

"Yes! You were an ass!"

"Look, I'm sorry I came back early." The edge is returning to his voice. "I really messed things up here."

Rory can't believe the insinuation—as if she would be cheating on Logan with Jess—but she's still hung up on one thing, so she lets it slide, focusing instead on what, to her, is the biggest part of the whole thing.. "Jess wrote a book!" This is still so huge—so amazing—so unbelievable. "He wrote a book, and you mocked him," and the thought of anyone mocking Jess when she knows everything that he's had to overcome to get there makes her more angry than anything else.

"I did not mock him!"

"He's doing something!"

"Good, fine, he's doing something. Everybody in the world's doing something. More power to him." Rory had never pegged Logan as clueless until tonight, but she's beginning to wonder where, exactly, his ability to read people's behaviour has gone. Far, far away, it seems.

"I'm not!" _I'm not._ That's a phrase that Rory never thought she would say, and suddenly, she snaps. This is ludicrous. "I mean, what am I doing? I'm living with my grandparents…" and her mouth starts working faster than her brain, and everything that's been wrong in her life comes pouring out, and she can't stop it or censor herself, and all Logan can do is tell her to have a drink. Have a drink!

Since when does she drink this many nights a week? When did her social life begin revolving around folk night—or not folk night—at the local bar? When was the last time she was at a festival or a celebration? She misses living the kind of life that takes joy in every event, every affirmation of life, in the changing of the seasons and the holidays and the quirks of small-town life.

They're yelling now, making a scene, drawing the attention of everyone else in the bar, and Rory can't care less. Logan shouts, accuses, blames, and she doesn't care. Rory baits, feints, prods, and she feels alive for the first time in a long time. Feels like she's finally involved in something that makes her feel passionate, and it's a fight, but fighting feels good, strangely.

It reminds her that she's alive, reminds her that Logan can still elicit this kind of emotion from her, that she does care about him—that she loves him—that he makes her angry. It exhilarates her, in the strangest way, and she relishes the escalating volume of their voices, the boiling of her blood, the heat that rises to her face.

"Now, you want to change, change it." You know what, Logan, I think I will. It's time something around here changed. "But don't blame me, don't you dare blame me!" he shouts, and she realizes that she never did. It was never supposed to be about him—it was supposed to be about her, but somehow, they became so intertwined that she forgot that.

"You know what," Logan finishes, "why don't you go off with John, Jack, whatever his name is!"

And that's the final straw. "Oh, I'm not going off with Jess," she shouts back, fed up with his assumptions and accusations.

They stare at each other in silence, his brown eyes and her blue ones clouded with anger, frustration, hurt. "Come on," he says, turning to walk out the door.

"Where?" She's going to be obstinate—she'll give in eventually, she knows, but not this easily.

"Let's go. I want to go." Logan gestures towards the door again. "I don't want to be here."

"I don't want to go," Rory says, standing her ground.

"Well, I drove you here, and I want to go!"

"I don't want to go!" They're not going to get anywhere with this argument. They're both so stubborn, she knows, it could go on all night, standing in the bar, going back and forth—stay, go, stay, go—but she refuses to back down first.

Logan stares at her, and for a moment, she doesn't think he even recognizes her. She's wondering if she really even recognizes him, standing in front of her, face red, eyes narrowed, fists clenched. "Fine," he spits out, reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out a wad of bills and throwing them on the table, never breaking eye contact. "That'll cover the bill, cab." He shakes his head and holds her gaze for a long minute. "Do whatever you want. It's your choice."

As he turns and walks away, leaving her standing at the table, his words roll around her brain, unfamiliar and refreshing. Words she hasn't considered in the longest time, and they echo long after he leaves. _Do whatever you want. It's your choice._

She takes a cab back to Hartford, picks up a change of clothes, gets in her car, still fuelled by indignation and adrenaline, and drives into the night. For the second time in as many nights, she drives towards Stars Hollow, but this time, her approach is direct—she knows exactly where she's going and there's no hesitation, no circling, no pretending that she's just driving.

Once again, the streets are quiet, although there's more movement at ten o'clock than there was at four in the morning the night before. Tonight, Rory drives directly to her destination, not bothering to look around her, not caring if anyone sees her driving through town.

She parks the car on the street, swings the backpack with her overnight things in it over her shoulder, and races up the front walk, propelled by an urgent need to change something—to take control of at least one aspect of her life.

She stops when she reaches the front door, acutely aware of exactly how much things have changed. Normally, she would let herself in, but she feels self-conscious, like a visitor—like she would be interrupting something if she just walks in.

So, Rory knocks, and Brian answers with a very confused, "Rory? What are you doing here? Did we know you were coming?"

"Hey, Brian. No, you didn't know, but I need to talk to…"

"Rory!" Lane cuts her off with a squeal and launches herself out the door, wrapping her arms around Rory's neck.

"I missed you," Rory exclaims, returning the hug, holding on for all she's worth.

"I missed you, too!" Lane pulls away first and grabs Rory by the arm, tugging her into the house. "Come on—it's cold out here."

They link arms, the same way they walked to school together nearly every day of elementary school, and bounce into the kitchen together, Rory relishing every second.

"Is everything okay?" Lane asks. "Does Lorelai know you're in town? Are things okay with Logan? Did you see Jess? Have you read his book?"

Rory laughs a little, sobering slightly. "Lane, you have no idea what the last twenty-four hours of my life have been like. And—" she cuts off Lane's comment pre-emptively—"you'll get all the details. I promise. But first, can I crash here for a couple of nights?"

"Of course you can!" Lane grabs Rory's backpack and leads the way into her bedroom, plopping cross-legged on the bed. "So… talk," she says, hugging a pillow and tossing a second one to Rory.

Rory opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, Lane cuts her off and jumps off the bed. "Wait! A story like this needs snacks!"

They scamper out to the kitchen, feeling like schoolgirls, and Lane rummages through the cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer, coming up empty. "This is what happens when you live with boys," she says. "You can't keep junk food in the house for more than a day."

"What about your floorboard stash?" Rory asks.

"Oh," Lane dismisses it with a wave of her hand, "they found that within a month. Turns out they're even more finely tuned to sugar than Mama. I've never seen anyone find a Ding Dong as fast as those two. Except Lorelai." Lane shuts the last cupboard door on her final sentence and turns, suddenly realizing her words. "I mean… is it okay to mention her—because I never know these days."

Rory shrugs it off. "It's fine."

"Really?" Lane looks sideways at her. "Because last time I checked, it wasn't fine at all."

"All part of the story," Rory says with a grin. "And the sooner we get junk food, the sooner you get to hear it."

"I'm on it!" says Lane. "Do you want to go grab something at Luke's?" Rory pales slightly. "Or we're not ready for that yet." Rory shakes her head slightly as Lane leans over the counter, into the living room area. "Zach!" she yells. No one answers. She rolls her eyes and marches in, walking deliberately between the TV and the couch. The video game that Zach and Brian are playing beeps and the theme music plays as Lane winks at Rory. "Works every time," she says.

"What?" Zach moans as the animated characters die a grisly death, complete with heads flying and blood spurting.

Lane sits down between them and takes Zach's hand in hers. "Since my dear friend Rory is here, and since we need some serious girl bonding time, and since I'm pretty sure you were the one who finished all the ice cream, can you run to Doose's and to Luke's, and get us some sustenance?" Zach opens his mouth to protest, but Lane cuts him off before he can get a word out. "With my money."

He relaxes immediately and stands, grabbing his jacket. "Sure, Lane. Come on, Brian—get your jacket."

Brian obediently stands and puts on a jacket, and Lane does a little hop over to Zach, throwing her arms around him, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. "She's _back_, Zach," she whispers in his ear, and he wraps his arms around her waist and squeezes her tightly in return before she steps back, places her hands on his chest, and pushes him lightly towards the door. "Go. And thanks."

Lane turns back to Rory, still standing in the kitchen, and pulls her by the hand to the couch.

"So?" she says as they sit down.

Rory sighs. "You have no idea how long this story is. What do you already know?"

Lane thinks for a second. "You had a huge fight with Lorelai, you're taking some time off, you're living with your grandparents, and… a few of the ladies at your birthday party said that they work with you at the DAR."

Rory winces slightly and laughs, a dry, wry laugh that, while not bitter and sharp, bears little resemblance to the carefree laughter of her younger days. "Yeah, you just about hit the highlights," she says.

Lane shakes her head. "That's not it. I don't buy for a second that you just 'needed some time off.' What happened?"

Rory is silent for a long time, weighing her next words carefully. Saying it out loud means acknowledging its power. Giving away some of the responsibility for these actions means that she needs to take the responsibility for her reactions.

Lane says nothing, sitting at the other end of the couch, waiting, knowing that Rory will talk when she's ready.

Finally, with tears already forming in her eyes, taking a deep breath, Rory begins.

"Last spring, I worked for Logan's dad—he gave me an internship at a newspaper in Stamford… because of the family—and you don't even know about the family dinner from hell. It makes Friday Night Dinner look like the Waltons. And Mitchum gave it to me as a way to make up for his idiotic family, and Honor and Josh and marrying Logan, and—" she stops abruptly. "There are so many pieces you don't know," Rory says, wiping her face. Lane scoots closer and rubs her arm encouragingly, and finally, calming down, Rory continues.

"Mitchum told me that I don't have what it takes. I don't have 'it,' and he should know, and he said that I'm not good enough, and…" her voice cracks and gets higher and faster with every word. "What if I fail, and I end up covering high school football games for the rest of my career? I can't do that—I can't handle that. And I didn't know what to do, and I didn't know where to go, so Logan and I stole a yacht." Lane's eyes get huge, and she's all but jumping out of her skin, but she keeps her mouth shut, with obvious effort.

"I got three hundred hours of community service, so that's been keeping me busy, and I've got work at the DAR, and then there's Logan, and I still hang out with his friends at Yale." This time, her voice doesn't crack, it breaks; tears that have been barely contained spill over, her face is blotchy and red, but by the time she speaks again, her voice is softer, less hysterical.

"I'm sorry, Lane." An open-ended apology, hanging in the air, wrapped around them both.

Lane reaches across the couch and pulls Rory into a tight embrace, rubbing her back, feeling Rory's body shake against hers as months of pent-up frustration and anguish come pouring out. Finally, the shaking stops, and Lane pushes Rory's bangs back from her forehead as they both lean back and settle into their respective corners of the couch.

"So," Lane says, "skip to the end. We'll fill in all the details later. Why tonight?"

Rory shrugs. "I snapped," she says simply. "Jess has his life together, and Logan was an ass, and I had to do something."

They sit side-by-side, and Rory rests her head on Lane's shoulder, and they both stare straight ahead in a comfortable, hard-won silence for a long time. As she hears the boys' footsteps coming up the sidewalk, Lane says quietly, "I'm glad you're back,' but there's no answer. And when Brian and Zach walk in with bags of food, they find Rory asleep on Lane's shoulder, evidence of tears dried on both girls' faces.

"Can you carry her into my room?" Lane motions toward the sleeping Rory, as soon as the boys walk in and the food has been safely deposited in the kitchen for a left-over binge later.

"That's kinda weird, don't you think?" Zach protests.

Lane skewers him with a look, and he rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Fine." He picks her up in a slightly more graceful manner than a fireman's carry and deposits her on Lane's bed. Rory never even stirs.

_TBC_


	8. You'd Have to Know My Family

**8: You'd Have to Know My Family**

_Jess_

* * *

He still finds it ironic that he prefers the routine of work to the transience of being on the road, but two weeks later, when Jess finally parks his car in his spot behind Truncheon Books, it's with a sigh of relief. The car is lighter than it was when he left; the boxes of books in the backseat weighed it down more than he realized. The clothes in his old army bag are desperately in need of being washed, and he thinks he's got the grooves of the steering wheel permanently imprinted on his palms.

He turns the key in the ignition and watches the clock's glowing "3:17" fade, resting his forehead in his palms before shaking himself and exiting the car. He couldn't have picked a worse time to get back, he thinks—it's too early to write off any work at all, but it's too late to get in a full day's worth of work, and he's too tired to really care one way or the other.

The trip had been good, productive even, but as intoxicating as those first few days of driving had been, it was made even better by the fact that he was grounded somewhere—that he had an emergency contact, somewhere to return to, people he was checking in with every few days. A few years ago, Jess would have laughed at himself for even wanting, let alone finding, stability and a sense of community, yet here he is, and it feels, dare he say it, like home.

Oh, it's not forever, Jess knows; it would be crazy to want to live with the smells and disgusting bathroom full of guys forever, but right now, it's good. For the first time in his life, Jess is truly coming home, and that makes the biggest difference in the world.

It's no Stars Hollow, but Jess is no Rory. Or Luke. Or any of the other crazies who make the town what it is. Still, he likes to think that Truncheon and the guys there suit him as well as can be expected. It strikes him, too, that visiting everyone else and every other place that was pushed on him as "home" is suddenly a lot more comfortable and a lot less threatening.

He opens the door and steps into the office to a chorus of "hello"s and a barrage of wadded up paper thrown at him—with arms full, he's powerless to defend himself, except to duck and sidestep the wads as he weaves his way through the maze of desks, filing cabinets, and stacks of boxes that cover most of the floor surface. As he reaches his own desk, he grimaces at the stack of papers and the surfaces covered in post-it notes. This will take the rest of the day to sort through—none of the others have even come close to understanding his organizational system.

He reaches the stairs, greeting the rest of the guys on his way past, and tosses his bag halfway up the stairs, letting it rest on the landing—if he goes upstairs now, he'll never get any work done—before sitting down at his desk and picking up the nearest stack of papers.

"How were things around here?" he asks, flipping through the piles, prioritizing the paperwork, trying to determine exactly how much time it'll take before he's caught up. He had taken a few manuscripts that he was already working on with him, but that was just a fraction of the work still ahead of him—following up with the bookstores that were carrying "The Subsect," talking to the authors of the three books he was currently editing, finding new material for their 'zine, booking artists and performances for their space, staying on top of the contracts with the printer... the list seemed endless, yet even just looking at it all gives Jess a fresh wave of energy. He'd missed this while he was gone.

"Ah, you know, same old, same old," Matthew says nonchalantly, typing furiously as he spoke.

"Riiiight." Jess draws the word out to three times its normal length. "Since when have we ever had a 'same old, same old' around here yet? I didn't think it worked that way."

"Two of your bookstores called yesterday—two of the first ones you went to," Chris informs him, spinning his chair around so he's facing Jess.

"Oh?" Jess stops working, his interest piqued.

"They sold out of the book already," Chris says, unable to stop a huge grin from spreading over his face.

Jess stops, mid-motion. "What?"

"Yeah," Chris says, flipping through a pile of papers. "I told them that you'd be back in the office tomorrow—I left the messages on your desk, so you can deal with that when you've gotten organized a bit. There are still those extra boxes of the book in the back, so you can figure out how many more they want shipped." He holds up a sheet of paper triumphantly. "Here it is!"

Jess leans back in his chair, not quite sure how to take in the information. Sure, having two stores sell out only means that twenty copies of his book are floating out there somewhere, but still, that's twenty people who have his book—his words—on their bookshelves, in their minds. He's not sure he'll ever get used to this feeling, but then again, he's not sure he wants to. He kind of wants to keep savoring it like this. "Which ones?"

Chris examines the paper. "Um, 'Shakespeare and Company' in Hartford, and 'Black, White, and Red,' in Stars Hollow," he says, handing the paper over to Jess.

Jess laughs out loud at that information. Figures.

"Something funny about that?" Chris asks, looking at him strangely.

Jess shakes his head, still chuckling softly. "You'd have to know my family," he says. _Huh. Stars Hollow, hey?_ he thinks to himself.

Chris goes back to his work, and Jess picks up the phone to listen to the messages on his voice mail, and the rest of the afternoon passes quickly as he returns phone calls and emails, makes a to-do list for the rest of the week, and calls back both bookstores, although he has to admit that it's still surreal talking to Andrew as a business associate.

By the time Matthew suggests that they all go out to the bar to "celebrate" (because, really, do they need a reason to go have a beer and hang out?), Jess is exhausted. The fatigue is catching up with him, and between staring at the road for three weeks, and then staring at a computer screen for a few hours, he's beginning to get a headache. All he wants is a long shower, an hour of non-thinking in front of the TV, and an early night.

"I'll have to pass tonight," Jess says over their protests. "Maybe tomorrow—I'm getting old, guys."

The office empties quickly once they decide to leave, and Jess is left alone at his desk in the quiet room. It's peaceful like this—a haven, a sanctuary of sorts, surrounded by the written word, and not only surrounded by it, but submerged in it. It's moments like these that Jess has to pinch himself, not believing that he's really stumbled across a life this fulfilling. Some days, it still feels like it's got to be a fluke, but for once, he's not going to question it.

After a few more minutes, he shuts off his computer, turns off the lights behind himself, and climbs the stairs heavily, picking up his bag along the way, feeling more tired now than he did before. He opens the door at the top of the stairs and steps into the dark kitchen, feeling his way to the light switch on the opposite wall. Flipping on the light and scanning the room, the first thing he sees is the answering machine light, blinking red. He pushes the button as he walks past it to his bedroom, leaving the door open so he can hear the message as he tosses his bag on the floor at the foot of his bed.

"Hey, Jess," Luke's voice fills the room. "Just wanted to make sure you got home okay—you did say that you were planning to get back today, right? If not, uh, sorry. But call me—or don't—whichever. I'll be at work all day, or you can try me at Lorelai's this evening. You know the numbers."

Jess smirks as he listens to the message, then picks up the cordless phone and carries it with him into his bedroom, dialling the familiar number as he walks, surprised at how easily he remembers the sequence.

"Hello?" He's surprised the greeting isn't more original.

"Hey, Lorelai?"

"Yeah?"

He takes a deep breath. This'll be interesting. "Hey—it's Jess."

There's a long silence. "Hi."

Awkward? Nah. "Is Luke there?"

"Oh!" Lorelai sounds relieved that there's a legitimate reason for Jess' call. "Hang on a second." She covers the phone, and Jess hears a muffled, "Luke! Phone!" and an indistinguishable response. Lorelai's voice comes back on. "He'll be here in a minute."

"Okay." The line goes silent except for the background noise, and Jess isn't sure whether Lorelai put down the phone or not. While he waits for Luke, he dumps the contents of his bag out on the floor, ready to be sorted and washed—tomorrow—and pulls a clean pair of sweats out of his dresser. Phone still pressed to his ear, he shrugs out of his button-down shirt and is just unzipping his pants when he hears Lorelai's voice again.

"Jess?"

"Geez!" He almost drops the phone and scrambles to do up his pants before he realizes how ridiculous that is.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Jess mumbles. "You just startled me."

Surprisingly, Lorelai doesn't respond or make a crack at his expense; instead, she takes a deep breath. "Jess... thanks."

"For what?" He's distracted, putting his sweats on, picking up a couple of pairs of shoes that need to be put away, only half listening to Lorelai. He really just needs to tell Luke he's home, and then go to sleep.

"For whatever you said to Rory." Lorelai's voice is quiet and emotional, causing Jess to stop, giving her his full attention. "Whatever you did, it worked."

He's been trying not to dwell on that night, but now, in the last fifteen seconds, the curiosity has begun to eat at him, and he knows that if he doesn't ask, he won't be able to stop thinking about it.

"She talked to you?" he asks.

"Better." Jess can hear the smile creeping into Lorelai's voice. "She came back."

He wasn't exactly expecting this news; still, Jess isn't surprised, on some level. What does surprise him is his own reaction—the thickness in his throat and the stinging behind his eyes—but he tries to convince himself that it's merely the result of being over-tired and under-caffeinated.

It strikes him, suddenly, why Lorelai was so taken aback by his phone call—besides the fact that he hadn't phoned their house in nearly three years. "Is she there now?" he asks, clearing his throat slightly.

"No, she's working late tonight."

Huh. "At the DAR office?"

"No." This time, the smile in her voice is unmistakable. "At the paper."

Jess grins, despite himself, letting himself be fully affected by the words. At the paper. He feels a slight surge of pride for her, a tiny bubble that rises in his chest and catches him off guard.

"Do you want me to tell her you called?" Lorelai asks.

"No, not this time."

The line falls silent again, and Jess scoops up a handful of toiletries, taking them into the bathroom to put them away—shampoo on the shower ledge; razor, toothpaste, and toothbrush in the medicine chest; travel-sized mouthwash in the drawer by the sink-waiting again, feeling far less awkward.

Finally, there's another scuffle on the other end of the line, and Luke's gruff voice comes through.

"Jess?"

"Hey," he says. "Just wanted to return your call and let you know that I made it back okay."

"How was the rest of the trip?" Luke asks.

Jess finishes putting his things away and heads back to the living room, now barefoot, dressed in sweats, and flops down on one of the couches, picking up the remote and turning the TV on at a low volume, flipping through channels as he talks. "It was good," he says. "I managed to leave all the books I took with me, so now it's just a waiting game—see if it actually sells."

"I'm sure it will," Luke says.

Jess laughs. "Have you even read it?"

Luke immediately gets defensive. "Of course," he retorts. "Andrew's been pushing it pretty hard at the bookstore, too. Seems people like the idea of knowing someone famous."

And that would explain the Stars Hollow sell-out. "Aw, geez," Jess groans. "Even better when the famous person is the lovable town punk, right?"

Luke chuckles. "You said it, not me."

"Well, as long as it sells," Jess says, lazily stretching out to full length on the couch, enjoying the feeling of having the apartment to himself, not minding the fact that Luke, too, has fallen silent.

"So," Luke finally says, breaking the lull, "are you coming for Thanksgiving dinner?"

Jess racks his brain for an excuse, only to realize that he actually has a valid one, and that it kind of disappoints him that he won't be there. "I've actually got to work over the long weekend," he says. "I was out of the office for so long that there's too much for me to catch up on for me to leave for another four days."

Jess can almost hear Luke's grin over the phone. "I'm sorry, can I record you saying that? No one will believe me otherwise."

Jess has the urge to reach through the phone and cuff Luke upside the head, but settles for a good-natured, "Shut up, Luke," instead.

Luke chuckles. "I'm just saying..."

"Say hi for me," Jess says. "Are you having dinner at the diner this year?"

"No, Sookie's cooking a huge feast at the Inn, and Lorelai needs to be there for that," Luke responds. "We can't each host a separate dinner."

"And what the soon-to-be-missus says, goes," Jess finishes for him. "Right?"

"One day, you'll learn," Luke says in a deep, solemn voice, "that it's easier not to fight it. Especially when it comes to a Gilmore woman." He catches himself, but only after the words are fully out of his mouth. "I mean..." he trails off—there's nowhere else for that sentence to go.

"Hey, I remember it well," Jess shrugs it off.

"Yeah, it's just weird, you know? I never know where things stand with you guys."

"Nah, don't worry about it. We're both adults—I'm sure we're over it by now," Jess says, flipping the channels faster. "Besides, it's not like we'll never see each other again—I'm sure there'll be family dinners and events and..." his voice trails off as a realization hits him, full-force. "We're going to be related." He stops. "Rory and I are going to be step-cousins," he says slowly. The thought makes him shudder just a little. "Did you and Lorelai ever think about that?"

Luke bursts out laughing, and Jess finally resorts to yelling, "Shut up, Luke!" into the phone several times before Luke stops.

"I can't believe we didn't realize that," Luke says. "You and Rory..."

Jess interrupts, pointedly cutting off any more mocking. "Tell everyone—Liz, too—that I'm sorry about Thanksgiving. I'll try to come for Christmas."

"Well," Luke says. "Glad you made it home okay."

"Yeah, yeah," Jess mutters, still getting used to the idea that someone is taking an honest interest in his well-being—and even more, that he's glad for it. "Happy early Thanksgiving."

"Talk to you later." Jess can hear the grin creep back into Luke's voice. "Cousins," Luke mutters, under his breath.

"Bye, Luke!" Jess yells, pushing the button to end the call and tossing the phone into the cushions on the other couch before rolling over to face the TV and turning the volume up, planning to finally space out and relax for the rest of the evening.

As he flips through the channels one more time, trying to settle on something, his conversation with Luke plays over and over in his head. Cousins. He can't believe that no one put the pieces together before, especially considering the fact that all of them are fairly intelligent. Oh well—it's one of those things that needs to be mocked once, and then never brought up again, right? One of those quirky family tree stories, the kind that goes in the same category as getting pushed into a lake by his uncle and getting into a fight at a strip club with his stepfather-to-be, the day before the wedding.

"_So, Jess, what's your family like?"_

"_Well, my father runs a hot dog stand; my uncle puts a sledgehammer through my bedroom wall; my mother considers corsets and pointy hats a part of her everyday wardrobe; the first time I met my aunt, she busted me stealing beer from her fridge; and, oh yeah, I dated my cousin, and she was my first true love."_

Jess rolls off the couch with a sigh. He thinks he needs that shower after all, and it had better be an hour long and scalding hot.


	9. Mom's Bells

**Author's Note:** As always, thanks to **adina** for being a great beta and my biggest cheerleader.

* * *

**9: Mom's Bells**

_Rory_

Rory breezes into the diner, the bells above the door jingling as she enters. Lorelai spins around on her stool at the counter, a huge grin on her face. "Do it again!" she exclaims.

An impish smile crosses Rory's face. "This?" she asks, opening and closing the door again.

"Yes!" Lorelai shouts. "Again!"

Laughing, Rory complies, ringing the bells over and over. Lorelai sighs in mock ecstasy. "Ahhh…" she exclaims. "It's music to a mother's ears."

"Rory," Luke implores, "come have a cup of coffee. Please!" he adds, as she opens the door yet again.

Both women burst out laughing. "But Luke," Rory says, turning her big blue eyes on him as she walks towards the counter, "when I ring the bells, it makes my mother happy. And when she's happy, you're happy—isn't that the way it works?"

"Oh, honey, when I'm happy," Lorelai begins, seductively trailing her fingers down Luke's arm, "he's _very_ happy."

Luke turns red and turns around to check on the coffee pots; Rory laughs and smacks Lorelai's hand. "Mom!" she protests, "I need no details about your sex life. Plus, I'm sure that even if you don't care, Luke doesn't want me to know anything. So you're outnumbered."

"Fine," Lorelai pouts, giving up with an uncharacteristically small amount of persuasion, but then brightens as she demands, "Ring the bell again!"

"Lorelai…" Luke groans as Rory runs back to the door, opening and closing it several times. "Enough!"

"But Luke," Lorelai says, "she's making up for lost time! She missed too much time, and now, she needs to catch up on all her diner entrances and bell-ringing."

Luke sighs. "A month ago, that was touching. Now, she's just letting in cold air. Rory," he calls, "I'm taking away your coffee if you don't come drink it now!"

Rory lets the door close and races back to the counter, picking up the steaming mug and inhaling deeply.

"Rory!" Lorelai protests.

"Sorry, Mommy," Rory mumbles into her coffee.

"But—but—" Lorelai sputters, looking accusingly at Luke. "You took away the bells! You took away the song that warms this mother's heart! You took away my joy and delight. And—" she turns to glare at Rory, "—you sold out for a cup of coffee."

"A cup of _Luke's _coffee," Rory corrects.

"Fine," Lorelai concedes. "I'll give you that one. But this hurts." She clutches dramatically at her chest. "Betrayed by my own flesh and blood—denying my eternal happiness for a cup of coffee."

Luke rolls his eyes as he takes a plate of food out to a customer. "She's your mother," he says sidelong to Rory on his way past.

"You chose her, I didn't," Rory retorts.

"Hey!" Lorelai waves her hands above her head. "Sitting right here!"

Rory takes a long sip of her coffee and sighs. "It tastes better every day. Look," she turns to Lorelai, "if it'll make you happy, you can borrow my new pink sweater—the one with the little flowers on the neckline."

"Yay!" Lorelai claps her hands several times like an excited child. "Okay," she says, draining the last of her coffee. "I've got to go to work. What are you doing today?"

"I'm at the paper at eleven," Rory says. "It's a short day today—I'll be finished by four, so I'm going to try and get some Christmas shopping done. Want to come?"

"Where?" Lorelai asks, pulling on her coat and winding a striped scarf around her neck.

"I'm not sure yet," Rory says. "I'll call you this afternoon, and we can figure out where to meet, okay?"

"Okay. Kiss!" Lorelai offers her cheek for Rory to kiss, then slides off her stool and walks to the corner table that Luke is wiping down. "Kiss." After a quick peck on the lips, she breezes out the door, opening and closing it behind herself an extra time before waving at them through the window and driving away.

"Crazy woman," Luke mutters under his breath, coming back behind the counter and leaning on his elbows in front of Rory as they both watch Lorelai leave.

Rory grins and slides her cup towards him. "More please?" she begs. "And, hey—where's the service around here? You haven't even taken my order yet!"

"How is that possibly my fault?" Luke is indignant. "You spent the first five minutes you were here sending my heating bill through the roof!"

"And if you want to pay that heating bill, you'd better take my order—you'd hate to lose a customer, wouldn't you?"

Luke scoffs. "Please. You don't pay anyway."

"I do, too!" Rory protests. Luke looks at her pointedly. "Sometimes," she amends. He continues staring. "Occasionally?" she offers. "Okay, fine. I don't pay," she concedes. "Now, will you please take my order?"

Luke pulls the order pad out of his back pocket. "What'll you have?" he asks.

"Blueberry waffles, bacon, sausage, and more coffee," she rattles off with a grin.

"Sure," Luke says, calling the order in to the kitchen.

While she waits, Rory pulls out her daytimer, checking the next few days, taking note of the meeting with her Yale advisor, the hours she has scheduled at the paper, the Christmas shopping with her mother, the "girls' day out" with Lane, the coffee with Paris and Doyle to discuss the apartment… Her schedule is full, and Rory loves it—she's thriving on the challenges of being busy, and when she flips through the empty calendar squares of the previous months, she can't believe that there was so much time unaccounted for.

"It's been a while since you actually sat down and had breakfast," Luke comments, clearing off another table as the customers pay and leave.

"I know!" Rory replies, tucking her agenda back into her purse, pulling out a book, and setting it on the counter. "It's nice to have a slower morning for a change. I feel like I haven't sat down in weeks!"

Luke laughs. "Don't let me keep you from your book, then."

Rory leans over the counter, book in one hand, the other wrapped around the coffee mug, and when Luke sets her plate down in front of her, she's so engrossed in her book that she barely notices. It's comfortable, sending her back to her teenage years, when things seemed simpler and the consequences of her choices less disastrous. When heartbreak was real and pain was devastating, but there was always a cocoon protecting her.

Being back in Stars Hollow for the past month has brought back that sense of being enveloped and enfolded. And even though Rory is itching to move forwards and rebuild her life on her own terms, the time to retreat and hibernate, despite her busyness, has been refreshing. Cathartic.

"Hey," Luke interrupts her reading, "you're reading Jess' book!"

Rory lowers the book, tucking the old receipt she's using as a bookmark in between the pages. "For at least the eighth time," she admits cheerfully, with no embarrassment.

"Wow," Luke says. "Eight… you've only had it for a month, right? That's impressive!"

Rory blushes slightly. "I get more out of it every time I read it. Besides, it's so cool to say that I know the author, especially if someone sees me reading it and asks about it. I figure it's free advertising for Jess."

"It's on top of my TV," Luke admits. "I like having it somewhere kind of prominent."

Rory laughs. "Have you read it?"

"Of course!"

"Just checking."

Luke grins. "I can't say that I've read it eight times in a month, but I did read it when he gave it to me. What's your favorite part?" he asks after a minute.

"I'm not sure," Rory hedges, flipping through the pages absentmindedly. "There are a lot of parts that I could read over and over—it's cool, you know—it takes on a completely different level when you know the author. I mean, I'll be reading a part, and get lost in the story, and then it'll hit me, 'Jess wrote this. i Jess /i wrote these words!' and I'll start wondering what was going through his head when he wrote that. Why he chose a specific word—what he felt about the plot—why certain characters developed the way they did… everything about his process just strikes me sometimes. That's why I've read it so many times. Every time, a different part makes me think, and eventually, I'll get through the whole thing just enjoying the story, and I'll have wondered it all to death, too."

She looks up from the book's cover to find Luke looking at her, a smirk playing at his lips.

"I'm sorry, I'm rambling." Rory ducks her head in embarrassment, but she's laughing, too.

"Can I show you my favorite part?" Luke asks, reaching for it.

"Sure." Rory hand the book to him, and he flips easily to the page, holding the open book out to her.

"This one."

Rory takes it, recognizing the page before she's close enough to even read the words. "Yeah," she says softly, running a finger over the dedication. "That's probably my favorite, too."

"To Luke, for never losing sight of who I could be, and to Rory, for being the reason I needed. For more than either of you know, and more than I will ever admit, thank you," she reads silently for the hundredth time—she doesn't need to read it anymore to know what it says, but seeing the printed words is comforting.

Truth be told, the dedication has almost become a mantra of sorts, a reminder that self-confidence sometimes takes time—that it's okay to cling to the confidence of others for a while. She did it for Jess all those years ago, and somehow, even though she's only talked to him once in two years, he's returning the favor.

"Luke?" She shakes herself out of her reverie.

"Yeah?" He looks at her over his shoulder from the till, where he's sorting paperwork and counting receipts.

"Do you ever… I mean—does it seem…" she pauses to collect her thoughts. Finally, she blurts out, "Aren't you so proud of Jess?"

A wide smile crosses Luke's face. "Every day."

Rory exhales, as if she's been holding in the sentiment for a very long time. "I always knew he had it in him; he just had to figure it out for himself."

Luke laughs. "I'm not sure _always_ knew," he says. "There were days when I really wondered about him."

"But you _knew_," Rory insists. "If you didn't really believe that he would be okay, you wouldn't have taken him in when he wanted to move back, and you wouldn't have pushed him so hard if you didn't know he would live up to it."

"You think so?" Luke asks, seeming to turn over Rory's statement in his mind.

"I know so. And Jess knows it too. He wouldn't have dedicated the book to you if he didn't. For that matter, he wouldn't even come back to Stars Hollow now if he didn't know that you had believed in him all along." She flashes another smile, then digs into her waffles, washing down a huge bite with a gulp of now-tepid coffee.

Luke goes back to his post-rush jobs, cleaning up the aftermath of the breakfast crowd, getting things ready for lunch. The diner is empty now, save for Rory at the counter, Caesar in the kitchen, and Luke behind the counter, and as Rory eats, she savors the familiar sounds. The grinding of the coffee machine, the hum of the refrigerators, the slight buzz of the oven, the sharp whack of Caesar's knife against the cutting board, the shuffling of papers and scratch of the pen as Luke finishes sorting the receipts. It sounds, smells, tastes like childhood and innocence and the home that will always be deeply embedded in her psyche.

"Rory?" She looks up to see Luke looking down the counter at her, a pensive expression on his face. "How did you do it?" he asks.

She wrinkles her brow slightly, not sure where his question is going.

"I did it because Jess is family," Luke says. "And, sure, I knew that he was capable of big things, but when it was hard, when he was a jerk, sometimes the only reason I didn't send him packing was because you don't turn your back on family."

Rory nods, taking another bite, knowing that he's not finished talking.

"You were the only other person in town who saw through to the potential," Luke says. "You knew he was smart, and I get that, but what kept you on his side, even when he wasn't on his own side?"

Rory takes her time chewing the bite, formulating an answer. "At first," she says slowly, "it was just because he let me see that other side—the bookwormish, playful, sarcastic, caring Jess. For some reason, he let down his guard around me at the beginning, and when he started putting those walls back up around me, it was too late. He had already let me in, and I knew too much to just stop believing in him."

She stops briefly, thinking. "Besides," she says simply, at length, "by then, I loved him, and that's what you do for people you love. You give them room to be the best."

"You loved him?" Luke asks, shaking his head slightly incredulously. "I didn't know it went that far for you."

"I tried," Rory says, lifting her coffee cup to her lips, and when she lowers it, she continues, "I did the best I could, at least. I was eighteen—what did I really know about love? Especially loving someone like Jess, who didn't always want it. I knew a little bit, definitely, but…" she trails off.

"But?" Luke prompts.

"But I wonder sometimes if things would have been different if I'd known how to love him better," she admits.

"Oh, Rory," Luke sighs, "you can't blame yourself…"

"I don't—not really," she hastens, cutting him off. "Not now—not anymore. I wonder sometimes, sure, but Jess just… wasn't ready, I guess. But in spite of everything else, I _did_ love him, and that was big enough to see through the other junk and keep a part of me believing in him, no matter how hurt or confused I was."

"So, you _loved_ him?" Luke hints, amazement still in his voice.

Rory chuckles. "Seeing him last month was almost…" she searches for the right word, "vindication. It was a way to know that all the hopes and encouragement and dreams and pushing had paid off. And, to be honest, it was the kick in the ass that I needed, but that's another side of the story altogether. Part of me will always love him, but we're very different people, and I can't be in love with someone I don't know anymore."

Luke nods. "Okay," he says, turning back to the counter, pulling out ketchup bottles and starting to refill them.

Rory glances at her watch. "Crap!" she yelps. "I'll be late for work if I don't leave now!" She takes one last gulp of coffee, then shoves the book in her purse and shrugs her jacket on as she bolts for the door. "Thanks for breakfast!" she calls.

"Anytime," Luke answers. "And hey—Rory?" She pauses and turns. "Thanks for never giving up on him. It was always nice to know I wasn't the only one."

Rory pushes open the door and stands, half in and half out of the diner, turning back towards Luke once more. "Same here," she says with a small smile, disappearing into the crisp, clear December morning as the bells echo across the square.


	10. Bad Reaction

**10: Bad Reaction**

_Jess_

The town looks like the North Pole threw up on it. Everywhere Jess looks, he sees nothing but gaudy plastic Santas, skeletal wire reindeer laced with white lights, frighteningly huge Frosty the Snowmans (_Snowmen? Snowmans?_ he wonders) that glow from within, and a few nativity scenes and menorahs, just to add some sufficiently commercialized piety to the picture. Even the diner looks more festive than usual, but that's not surprising, considering the fact that all Lorelai has to do is bat her eyes, and Luke will do just about anything for her—and really, there's no one in Stars Hollow who's more fanatical about holidays than Lorelai.

Then again, Jess realizes, Luke has been distracted lately, so maybe it didn't take much to get him to agree to more decorations than usual. He makes a mental note to ask if everything's okay—to keep an eye out for his family, even though he's almost sure he doesn't want to actually know what's wrong.

Jess steps away from the apartment window, letting the blind drop back into place, but even so, the glow from a million Christmas lights filters into the room. "Damn town," he grumbles, a tiny smile creeping up the corners of his mouth, despite himself.

The apartment itself is quiet, free of Christmas songs and decorations. Not, as Luke was quick to remind Jess earlier that evening, because he's a scrooge who hates Christmas, but simply because it seemed pointless. Christmas Day will be at Lorelai's, and since he had already helped her decorate the tree, he saw no point in doing two.

It's okay, though—despite the absence of carols, lights, decorations, a tree, or even company, Jess feels more Christmas-y than he has in a long time. Ever, maybe.

He's alone. Luke is spending the night at Lorelai's, after at least an hour of convincing him that no, Jess didn't need a babysitter; and no, he wouldn't be lonely spending Christmas Eve alone; and yes, it would be fine for Luke to stay at the Gilmores', even though Rory was there. The last one the biggest thing—Lorelai and Jess had both tried to convince him that it would be fine, especially since it was a holiday, but he insisted that it would be weird. Finally, Rory herself had gone into the diner and informed him that she didn't mind, and if he wouldn't come with her there, she would sleep somewhere else—he could decide what to do with the empty house. Luke had given in at that point, knowing how stubborn she can be when she makes up her mind, and all three of them had slept at Lorelai's.

Jess' solitude tonight matters as little as the under-decorated apartment or the over-decorated town. He's more than content, stretched out in the armchair with a book (nothing for work, though—he left that in Philly this time), a beer, and, in the slightest concession to the day, "It's a Wonderful Life" on mute, ignored in the background.

If it was anyone else—if Jess was seeing someone else spend Christmas Eve like this—it would be borderline pathetic. Instead, it's peaceful, relaxing, and, frankly, necessary. Christmas Day with Luke and Lorelai; Liz and TJ; Sookie, Jackson, and their kids; and, yes, Rory; not to mention any random townies that might drop by, will be enough togetherness for one holiday season.

It's late when he falls asleep in the chair, even though his old bed is only a few feet away. For some reason, he can't bring himself to move, even when his blinks get longer and it becomes more difficult to focus on the words in front of him. The book drops into his lap and his head falls back, and he's lucid enough to feel it happening, but too far past being alert to care. This is how he's going to sleep, and he things that his neck will kill him in the morning, and then… he doesn't care.

The loud, obnoxious ringing of his cell phone startles him awake. It's his default ring, not a preprogrammed number, and he wishes for the hundredth time that Matthew hadn't dropped his phone and cracked the display—it would be nice to know who was calling, rather than just relying on the ring. As he presses the "talk" button, he wonders who on earth would be calling him at… he looks at the clock… 8:38 on Christmas morning.

"Yeah?" he says into the phone.

There's a giggle and a deep breath on the other end, and then he hears off-key, enthusiastic singing. "We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!"

Jess makes a face and twists his torso as they sing, cracking his back and stretching out the kinks that have settled into his joints after spending all night in the chair. "Only one verse?" he quips when they finish.

"You want more?" says a female voice—Lorelai's, he's pretty sure, although it's hard to tell with the distinctly tinny, far-away sound of the speaker-phone. "We can sing about figgy pudding.

"No, that's okay," Jess declines, digging through his overnight bag to find some clean clothes—he may as well get ahead before they even ask if he's on his way.

There's a commotion on the other end, and then a different voice speaks. "Jess, honey." Ah, Liz. "Where are you? Sookie's making an amazing breakfast, and we're almost ready to open presents! Were you still sleeping? Don't tell me that you were still asleep on Christmas morning! Everyone else has been here since 7:30!"

"Well, I'm not four anymore," Jess says. "Christmas morning hasn't quite had that same 'up at the crack of dawn' appeal in… a lot of years."

"I know, I know. Just get over here, okay? We're all waiting for you, and Davey and Martha are getting restless."

_No kidding_, Jess thinks, hearing a male voice call Davey's name for the fifth time in their short conversation. "Give me half an hour," he says, giving in.

Forty minutes later, he opens Lorelai's front door, knocking lightly as he pushes it open with his foot, a large shopping bag of wrapped presents hung over his left forearm. He sets it down just inside the entry, brushing the snow out of his hair and prying off his wet shoes, then makes his way into the living room. Luke is crouched in front of the fireplace, fanning a small flame, and Jackson is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the Christmas tree with two small children—Jess assumes they're Davey and Martha—climbing on his lap.

"Merry Christmas," Jess says, tucking the bag of gifts under the tree, towards the back, hoping tiny hands won't destroy it too soon.

Jackson sends the toddler running on chubby, unsteady legs into the kitchen, Martha crawling after Davey, and as his chest is freed from their weight, he pushes himself up on his arms and stands, stretching out his shoulders. "Merry Christmas," he replies, shaking Jess' hand.

"How was your night?" Jess asks Luke, giving him a quick hug and a slap on the back.

Luke gives him a pointed look. "It was fine." Jess cocks an eyebrow. "I couldn't sleep. It was just too weird."

Jess laughs. "You'll have to get used to sleeping here while Rory's here eventually," he says. "You'll both live here after the wedding, right?"

"That's… different," Luke says. "Right now, it just feels weird."

Jess' sarcastic comeback is cut off by a commotion coming from the kitchen. "What's going on in there?"

"They're Christmas caroling Rory awake," Luke says, a note of resignation in his voice.

As if on cue, a chorus of voices comes from the other room. "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…" The voices get louder and more off-key with each phrase, and Sookie interjects every few seconds with a "Sing, Davey!"

Jess laughs, rubbing his jaw, wondering out loud if they've been hitting the eggnog a little too hard, a little too early. "Rory's going to kill them," he adds, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a grin. "Whose idea was the caroling?"

Luke rolls his eyes. "I'll give you a hint—my Christmas carol was sung two inches from my face, while I was still asleep, and there's only one person who can get two inches from my face while I'm sleeping. She's been getting more voices for every wakeup call."

"How is it even possible that Rory's managed to stay asleep this long?" Jess wonders.

Luke shrugs. "Lorelai said something about the effects of living with Paris for two years—apparently, that's made her able to sleep through anything. Plus, she wears really heavy-duty earplugs."

Two years living with Paris? Brave girl. A grin crosses his face as all the other ramifications are quick to hit him, too. "See?" Jess ribs, nudging Luke with his elbow, "You never had anything to worry about."

"Oh, shut up," Luke growls, and Jess laughs.

The singing in the kitchen stops, so Jess ventures in, bracing himself for anything. "Merry Christmas," he calls, heading directly for the full coffeepot on the counter.

"Jess!" Liz squeals, flying over and hugging him—he barely manages to get his coffee mug safely set on the counter before her arms are around him, narrowly avoiding a festive trip to the emergency room with scalding coffee burns down both of their arms.

"Hey, Liz," he says, returning the hug, surprising even himself with the warmth of his greeting.

"I'm so glad you're here," she gushes, kissing him on the cheek, then turning him over to a variety of handshakes and one-armed hugs from Lorelai, Sookie, and TJ; a quizzical look and quivering lip from Davey; and a tentative tug on his sock, complete with huge eyes staring up at him, from Martha.

Jess shoots his own puzzled look at the tiny girl, who seems to have attached herself to his foot, wondering how he's supposed to get back over to the counter to retrieve his coffee without hurting her or stepping on her. Thankfully, Sookie notices his discomfort and swoops in, picking Martha up and swooping her around the room like an airplane.

"Let's go find Daddy!" she exclaims, picking Davey up in the other arm and taking them back into the living room, TJ wandering in behind them. Jess shoots her a grateful look, and she winks at him, saying, "Are Daddy and Uncle Luke with the Christmas tree? Let's go find the Christmas tree, and soon we can open the presents!" Both children squeal at the word, and within seconds, Jess hears the babble of Davey's voice and Jackson's attentive response coming from the other room.

"How was the drive?" Lorelai asks, refilling her own coffee cup as Jess doctors his.

"Uneventful," he says, shrugging slightly. "The highway wasn't as busy as I thought it would be on Christmas Eve."

"You should have come to our place last night," Liz chimes in. "We've got the guest room—you can always stay there."

"Maybe next time," Jess hedges. "It was fine at Luke's last night. Nice to have it to myself, actually. The guys I live with are great, but it can be wearing sometimes."

The conversation hits a lull when Liz excuses herself to the living room, but it's kept from utter silence by spoons clinking on coffee cups, the snapping of the freshly-built fire in the living room, the conversation and laughter drifting in, and the undertones of the Vince Guaraldi "Peanuts" music—ubiquitous Christmas classic that it is (_Someone must have put it on as a joke_, Jess thinks)—weaving in and out through it all. It's the sound, he realizes, of a typically happy, truly all-American family holiday, oddly enough. It's almost enough to prove that the "typical" is just a myth, and that family is anywhere you can find it, even in the rag-tag bunch assembled in Lorelai's house—Jess' slowly mending relationship with Liz, his slightly-more-than-tolerance of TJ, his slight discomfort around the children, the awkward history and tentative truce with Lorelai, and whatever's been eating at Luke lately notwithstanding.

There's a soft click and the faint creak of a door, and Jess instinctively turns toward the sound, knowing that she's got to come out eventually, but still fully unprepared to see Rory in the doorway, bleary-eyed, hair in a messy knot on top of her head, dressed in a pair of flannel pyjama pants and an old Chilton gym shirt. His hands tighten around his coffee mug as he takes her in—as he sees her without her defenses for the first time in years. _Shit_, Jess thinks, feeling his heartbeat speed up slightly. _This was _not_ supposed to be the reaction._

"Morning, Mommy," she mumbles.

"Merry Christmas, hon," Lorelai says, tucking a sprig of holly into Rory's hair and kissing her on the cheek as Rory lets her forehead drop onto Lorelai's shoulder.

"Too early," Rory mutters. "Too much singing. Need coffee."

"It's early, but it's Christmas!" Lorelai exclaims. "There's no such thing as a too-early Christmas morning."

Rory groans something unintelligible, and Lorelai rubs small circles around her back, visibly loosening some of the tension in her shoulders. "Took a while to fall asleep again?" she asks. Rory nods, the weight of her head acting as its own pendulum, rocking itself up and down where it rests on her mother. "Well, have some coffee," Lorelai suggests, "and we'll wait until you're awake to open the presents, okay?"

"Mmmkay," Rory sighs, exhaling the word as if it's too much effort to say, pushing her head up and wiping a finger under each eye, digging in the corner of the right one for an elusive crusty. He catches his breath as she raises her head and he sees her face for the first time. She looks exhausted—like she's going to fall down if someone's not holding her up. Her eyes are rimmed with dark circles, and the skin across her cheekbones looks taut and chalky. This isn't—she was doing better, wasn't she? That's what it seemed like, anyway. At the bar, she hadn't been herself, but at least she'd had a spark. Today, Jess realizes that the best word to describe her is simply "extinguished."

"Jess?" Lorelai calls over to where he's standing, still holding his cup of coffee. He's been trying to fade unobtrusively into the cupboards and not intrude on their moment, but apparently he's been noticed.

At his name, Rory's head snaps up and a flush of red rises in her cheeks, a bright stain against the white, as she looks in his direction. He tips his head toward her, smirking slightly at her embarrassment, and she raises a hand in a half-hearted greeting, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Yeah?" he answers.

"Can you pour Rory a cup of coffee? I'm assuming you remember how, even though it's been a while since you were a regular fixture in the diner. Plus, you're standing right there, and neither of us wants to move." Lorelai flashes him a grin, wrapping an arm around Rory's shoulders again.

He's reaching for a mug before the sentence is fully out of her mouth, and as he begins to pour, he feels something tapping on his toe. The contact breaks the melancholic mood over the room, and Jess suddenly tunes back in to all the noises that have been filling the house the entire time—the ones that, in a cliché too cheesy for words, seemed to disappear when he saw her. TJ is expounding on the history of Christmas trees, and from what Jess can hear, it's no history that ever even came close to happening; Jackson and Sookie are playing a peek-a-boo game with Davey; Luke and Liz' low, conversational tones rise and fall in waves under the noise of the rest of them.

He looks down in surprise, ready to brush off whatever fell on his foot; instead, he finds Martha, who has apparently escaped the living room and come to see what's interesting in the kitchen. A befuddled look crosses his face as he looks again at the 8-month-old attached to his pant leg and then hands the coffee to Rory with a faintly apologetic smile. "I'll let you add your own stuff to it."

"Thanks," Rory replies, finally meeting his eyes and allowing a small, yet heartbreakingly genuine, smile cross her face before she raises the mug, inhaling the steam with a deep sigh.

At his feet, Martha pulls herself up on his jeans, standing on unsteady legs, clutching handfuls of the stiff fabric as she beams up at her Aunt Lorelai, obviously proud of her accomplishment. Jess freezes, one hand braced on the counter, afraid to move, as Lorelai and Rory both ooh and aah over the little girl.

"I'm gonna…" Jess gestures toward the living room with his head, careful not to move the rest of his body.

"Okay," Lorelai says, still making a face that makes Martha giggle and bounce with glee.

"Can someone take…" Jess starts, then tries to take a tiny step forward without knocking Martha over. Lorelai laughs at his attempts, and even Rory manages a believable grin, but neither one reaches out to help him, preferring, instead, to watch him from across the room and keep the baby laughing the whole time. Jess lets out an exasperated noise, shoots them both a dirty look, and sets his coffee mug back on the counter, reaching down and picking up the little girl. He holds her gingerly under the arms, but she giggles with delight and reaches for his face, grasping at his hair with her tiny fingers.

He sighs, pulling Martha in, holding her in the crook of one arm, aware of the discomfort evident on his face, as he picks up his mug with the other and squares his shoulders. "And back into the asylum we go," he comments, flashing a dirty look at Lorelai and a grin at Rory as he walks back into the bright, cheerful, noisy, festive madness. "See you when you're awake," he calls to Rory over his shoulder as she yawns and shuffles toward the stairs.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Always, biggest thanks to my beta, **adina** (whom I constantly forget to credit for her ideas!). This chapter is dedicated to all the Dirty!Jess girls who are clamoring for a scene with Jess and a baby. Any baby. I hope this helps tide you over until we actually see it on the show! 


	11. Silent Descent

**11: Silent Descent**

_Rory_

She takes a blanket and a book out to the porch late that afternoon—it's mild for December even though there's snow on the ground, and it's too crowded inside, with people spread out over every available space in the house, sleepy from too much turkey or occupied with new presents. Even from the outside, the house itself seems to hum with the low rumble of voices, relaxed bodies, new toys, and a few snores, and everyone's movements are minimal and lethargic.

Rory curls up on the top step, buried in two sweaters, a jacket, and a scarf, with an old afghan wrapped tightly around herself and a new book in her hand, choosing outside over her bedroom, even though her room would offer more warmth, privacy, and possibly a nap—she's feverish and tired, but she still doesn't want to sleep. Sleep means dreams, and dreams with a fever mean chasing, haunting, disjointed, nearly frightening visions, and Rory doesn't want those. Not today. Today is Christmas, and if she has to spend the rest of the day out on the porch, letting the crisp air keep her awake, she'll do it.

She sighs, placing the book on the step beside her. As much as she wants to, she can't concentrate, making reading nearly impossible. Her thoughts have been swirling all day, chasing themselves around her head, bringing up incoherent memories and random feelings that seem detached from anything else. The sting of Thanksgiving still hasn't fully faded, and being around so much family and so many friends has become a painful reminder—the last time they were together like this, she was hiding behind a smile, trying to keep the shock and pain from showing on her face, and too many things about today are reminding her of that.

Logan has been prominent in her dreams for the past few nights, and despite herself, she misses him. She knows she shouldn't—knows she should focus on that last disastrous night at the bar if she's going to think about him at all—but her mind persists in reaching further back than that. Back to jumping off the scaffold, back to the lazy days in her grandparents' pool house, back to his reaction to his father's opinion of her, back to double dates with Honor and Josh, back to nights out and nights in.

_No!_ she scolds herself. _That's enough_. This is getting out of control—she's not going to pine. She's going to stop thinking about him… now. No, now.

Rory sighs, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself as a stiff breeze blows across the porch and she shivers, a deep shudder that shakes her to the core. Inside, the babies have woken up—she hears Davey and Martha squealing and Jackson growling, and she pictures him chasing them around the room like a bear—and her eyes sting, but she tells herself that it's just the wind.

She tries to convince herself that it's not so much that she misses him as it the fact that it's Christmas and everything still feels a little off, but whatever the reason, there's still an emptiness and a longing in her gut. She wants her blanket to have arms, because she thinks that if someone was holding her right now, she would be able to believe that, yes, it's okay. Or, at least, it will be, and at the moment, even that's better than what she's feeling right now.

She thinks she hears her cell phone ringing, the distinct ring programmed for Logan's numbers, and she jumps, suddenly alert, looking around and patting her pockets for her phone. It takes her a moment to realize that her phone is in her bedroom, charging, and that aside from Lane, no one would phone on Christmas Day, anyway. Still, an acute wave of disappointment washes over her, and if she wasn't aching so much that moving hurt, she would be tempted to go inside, get her phone, and call him, just to hear him say something—anything—to her. _Thank God for the flu_, she thinks.

The door opens behind her, and she looks up as it clicks closed softly. Jess steps out onto the porch, pulling his jacket around his shoulders, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee and an extra blanket, his gait relaxed and easy.

"Hey," he says, lowering himself onto the steps on the opposite side of the porch from where she's sitting. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she hedges.

"You shouldn't be out here," he says, handing her one of the mugs and offering her the extra blanket.

She declines, motioning for him to use it himself. "I'm fine," she says, holding back the cough that threatens to escape at that exact moment.

He laughs, but the accompanying smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You don't look okay."

Blunt, as always. "I promise, Jess—I'm fine."

He scoffs. "You ate four bites of turkey at dinner, and you can't tell me that's normal, because I've seen you eat turkey before."

"I've just got the flu," she reassures him. "It's nothing big—it just sucks to be sick at Christmas."

"And you're not helping yourself by sitting outside," he finishes for her.

Rory nods. "I know," she says, letting the corners of her mouth tip up, even as a fresh wave of nausea sweeps over her and she fights to keep herself from reacting visibly, "but I needed to get out of the house for a few minutes."

"Fine," Jess concedes in a tone that suggests that it's anything but, obviously resigning himself to the fact that he won't get a better answer from her.

Rory folds in on herself a little more, glad that he's letting go without a fight. The last thing she has right now is the energy to convince anyone that she's feeling fine, but as he settles in, getting comfortable on the steps, she has to admit that she's glad someone else is with her.

Jess stretches out, his legs extended down the steps in front of him, opening out his body in a distinct contrast to Rory, who's curled into as tight a ball as possible on her side. Pulling out a well-worn book, he opens it, sipping from the coffee cup every so often, but Rory can tell that he's only reading a few words at a time, continually glancing up over the top of the book to look at her, concern etched on his face. It's unnerving, and even though she knows that he's just worried about her, she shifts self-consciously every few seconds, feeling his eyes on her.

Trying to concentrate on her own book is impossible. The words swim, and the sentences and paragraphs jump around the page, refusing to stay still long enough for her eyes to take them in and her brain to make sense of them. She sets it down on the top step, resigned to the fact that she's not going to get anything else read right now and closes her eyes, but the spinning feeling remains. Deep breaths—in, out, in, out. Take in the cold, crisp air; maybe that will help. Clear her head, get some oxygen running through her body, give her eyes a rest…

A hand on her arm snaps her back to reality, and she opens her eyes to see Jess' worried face and his hand steadying her.

"You need to go inside," he tells her firmly. "You almost fell off the step—did you even know you were swaying?"

Rory shakes her head. "I was?" she asks, a hint of amusement creeping into her tone. Sure enough, when she looks down, the angle at which she's facing the ground is different than it was before. "I didn't feel anything."

"You would have pitched headfirst off the porch," he says.

She giggles; a tired, quiet laugh that makes him scowl even more, which makes her smile get wider. "Come on, you've gotta admit—it's pretty funny that I can't even sit up by myself."

His lips tighten as he moves to stand, holding out a hand to help her up. "Inside. Now."

She doesn't move, pulling the blanket tighter around herself instead. "It's too stuffy in there, Jess." Too many people, too many smells. It's too uncomfortable to sleep, but it's too taxing to be with people. She doesn't want to be antisocial, but she doesn't want to ruin everyone else's Christmas by making a big deal out of it—in the long run, it's just easier to sit out here for a while.

"You're going to make yourself sick."

"I already am," she reminds him, touched by his sudden protectiveness. "Can't get much worse, can it?"

"Actually, it can." He stands anyway, pulling his blanket off his shoulders. "But far be it from me to argue with you." He hands her the extra blanket, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he lets go of it. "At least take the extra blanket."

She accepts gratefully, wrapping it around her legs as he turns to go inside. "Hey," she calls as he reaches the door and stretches out a hand to turn the knob.

He turns, one eyebrow cocked. "Yeah?"

"Sit and talk to me for a while," she says, nodding to the empty space he has just vacated. "You know, just to make sure I don't fall down the stairs or anything."

He nods and returns to his spot, arms folded across his chest, head leaning against the porch rail. "Talk about what?" he asks.

Rory shrugs. "Anything. Tell me about work—about Philly—about your book." She closes her eyes. "I can't promise to be very good company, but I will try my best not to yack in the middle of a sentence."

She can almost hear him smirk, even though he doesn't say anything for a minute. "Philly, hey? It's… good, actually."

Rory smiles, eyes still closed. "I'm glad."

"The book's selling pretty well—about a quarter of the copies have been sold."

"Impressive," she comments.

Jess laughs. "Not really, when you think about the fact that it was only a run of 500 copies."

"Still," Rory says, opening her eyes slightly and peering at him through the slit in her eyelids, "that's…" she stops, trying to calculate in her head… "125 people who have your book in their homes."

"Having trouble with math?" he ribs. "That's what the time away from Yale will do to you, I guess."

They freeze simultaneously at his comment. Rory doesn't dare open her eyes—she doesn't want to see what's looking back at her. Pity? Sorrow? Mocking? Disappointment? She's not sure which would be the worst. "Shit, Rory," Jess says, and she finally looks, just in time to see him running a hand over his jaw. "I…" he trails off, leaving an awkward silence between them.

"It's okay," Rory finally says, filling the void. "It was…" her voice fades out, too, leaving a long, heavy silence before she speaks again. "I'm going back in January—did I tell you that?"

"No, you didn't." His smile is strained. "That's great."

"Yeah." Jess plays with his mug; Rory adjusts her blankets. It's an improvement of sorts, in a weird way; she thinks it is, anyway—at least they're both still sitting there.

Still, the silence is uncomfortable, no matter how new and revolutionary it is, and it becomes clear that she'll have to speak first. "You're supposed to be taking my mind off the fact that this turkey doesn't want to stay in my stomach."

Jess relaxes slightly, evidently glad to be off the hook. "So, really, this is as much self-preservation as anything else."

"Self-preservation," Rory agrees, "or preservation of your shoes, because when I lean over…" she demonstrates, drawing a line in the air with her finger, following the trajectory that it would follow if she got sick, landing with one pointer finger on the toe of his left shoe. "You pick."

"That's disgusting." Jess wrinkles his nose. "I can handle a lot, but the smell of someone else's…" his face pales. "Can we talk about something else?"

"You're the one who's supposed to be distracting me," Rory reminds him, leaning back again.

"You're right. So," Jess begins with an exaggerated air of nonchalance, raising his mug to his lips, "where are you going to live?" he asks before taking a deep sip of the coffee.

"Believe it or not," Rory smirks, "with Paris and her boyfriend, Doyle."

Jess' eyes go wide above the mug's rim, and he sputters slightly into his drink as he lowers it. "I'm not sure which part of that to mock first—the fact that you're going to live with Paris again, or the fact that Paris has a boyfriend that's willing to live with her."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Rory teases. "The world has stopped spinning and hell has frozen over."

"Don't forget the flying pigs." He shakes his head, still muttering under his breath. "Wow—Paris."

"We lived together for my first two years," Rory informs him. "Once you get used to her quirks, she's not that bad as a roommate."

"How many quirks did you have to get over?" Jess asks.

Rory laughs. "I stopped counting a long time ago."

"Wise girl."

Rory sucks in a sharp intake of breath with her laughter, and Jess immediately sits up straighter, leaning in towards her. "Are you…"

She cuts him off with a hand, holding it up as the other one rests on her stomach, rubbing small circles, taking long, slow breaths until her stomach calms down. "Sorry," she finally says, when she can speak.

"Nothing to be sorry for," he replies, still leaning, one hand poised to reach out and grab her if she falls again. "Are you sure it's just the flu? This seems to be hitting you hard."

Rory nods. "It's been a hard few months, and I think it's all catching up with me now that I've had to take a few days off and I can't forget about it all by staying busy."

"Hard? How so?" Jess asks, honest curiosity coloring his voice.

She shrugs, letting her mind wander back over the weeks since everything changed yet again. "Lots of stuff going on—getting the job at the paper, moving home, trying to work things out with Mom, talking to the dean about going back to school, figuring out my living situation... it's just a lot, all at once."

"But you can handle 'a lot,'" Jess argues.

"Most of the time," Rory admits with a wry smile. "There's still a lot of extra baggage from the past year, though, and I'm still trying to figure it all out. I was in a pretty bad place when I saw you last—you caught me right in the middle of finally seeing all these disastrous consequences." She looks up, catches his eye, and smiles slightly. "Thanks, by the way."

Jess shrugs it off. "Does it count as helping when you're just getting mad?" he asks rhetorically.

"If getting mad changes things, it does."

"Someday," Jess starts, "I'd like to hear about everything that happened."

Rory's laugh turns into a cough, and it takes a few seconds before she can answer. "No you don't," she finally says.

"Yeah—if you ever want to tell me about it, I want to hear about it," he replies, holding her gaze briefly before allowing her to look away, out over the snowy ground and Christmas decorations adorning the yard.

"Maybe," is her only non-committal response as she sips her coffee, making a face as it hits her lips. "This is cold."

Jess opens his mouth, as if he's going to say something, then closes it again, then finally says, "You haven't mentioned Logan."

A chill runs through Rory's body, and she answers carefully, avoiding Jess' eyes. "You remember his name?"

"As appropriate as 'The Blonde Dick at Yale' seemed at the time… yes, I remember his name."

Suddenly, the loneliness and longing from earlier crashes back over her, and she blinks to fight back tears, hoping he doesn't see the turmoil on her face. "I haven't talked to him since then."

"Oh." The single syllable cuts the air, suspended in the cold space between them, a thousand meanings inherent in its presence.

"Does he know how things are going?" Jess finally asks.

"I don't know," Rory says, head still bowed, not even mustering the energy to shrug.

"Does he know he's going to run into you again? Does he know you're working at the paper?"

This time, Rory shrugs in response. "He'll figure it out, if he needs to. I'm sure we'll see each other around, but I don't care enough to think about it beforehand."

"Don't give me that," Jess retorts. "You do."

"No," Rory insists, glancing in his direction, "I don't."

"Whatever," Jess mutters, turning to stare out across the yard, watching one of Babette's cats chase a bird through the hedge separating the two yards. The awkwardness descends again, each one of them caught up in their own world, refusing to make eye contact.

The tears that were filling Rory's eyes grow heavy and one of them slips out onto her cheek, and she turns further, sitting with her back almost to Jess, silently begging him to give up and go inside. Instead, he stays, sitting in the long minutes of her silence, and even though she can't see him, she can almost feel the space between them melting. He doesn't touch her, doesn't approach her, doesn't say anything, but she can almost feel a sort of forgiveness radiating from him, an understanding filling the void.

"You're right," she finally says in a tiny voice, her back still to him. "I care, but I don't want to." This will be easier if she's not facing him—if she doesn't have to look at him. "I loved him. I miss him. It's Christmas, and he's not here, and that sucks. He was a jerk, and he obviously decided that I wasn't worth loving any more—or worth loving in the first place—so I should be glad it's over. It shouldn't hurt this much, and I shouldn't miss him, but I do, and I can't do anything to change that."

It's strangely cathartic, saying it out loud. Ever since she came back to Stars Hollow, Rory hasn't been able to say that she loved Logan—it doesn't fit. No one wants to hear it; they just want to hear that she's doing fine, that she's going back to Yale, that she's working on her relationship with Lorelai. That's what people want to hear about—not the fact that she misses the ex-boyfriend that took her away in the first place.

Yet saying it doesn't hurt the way she thought it would. There's a tentative peace about it, even in using the past tense of the word. _Loved him_, she realizes, and she thinks that maybe, that can be true someday.

"Rory," Jess breaks into her reverie, first with his voice, then with a hand on her arm, turning her toward him, waiting until she meets his eyes to say anything. "It's okay—not knowing what to feel. Loving someone even after they've stopped loving you is always complicated."

This time, the silence is rich with words unspoken and emotions that have been bottled for a long time, yet it's an expectant silence, not an angry one. When it's broken, though, it's not with either of their words, but with the opening of the door behind them.

"Why are you out here, hon?" Lorelai asks, stepping out onto the porch in just a sweater, rubbing her arms briskly.

"Just… thinking," Rory replies, turning and giving her mother what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

"Come in, babe. You shouldn't be out here when you're sick."

"Yes, Mom."

Lorelai gives her a pointed look, deliberately wrapping her arms more tightly around herself to stave off the cold. "Soon."

"Okay," Rory agrees, finally standing up, both blankets wrapped around her shoulders, ready to follow Lorelai inside.

"Hey," Jess drapes an arm over her shoulder, leading her towards the door. "You'll be okay," he assures her as she lets her head drop on his shoulder briefly before he pulls back and picks up both coffee mugs and both of their books. "Now go take a nap," he orders, pushing open the door for her to walk through.

"Yes, Mom," she retorts, sticking her tongue out at him as they enter the house.


	12. To the Core

**Chapter 12: To the Core**

_Jess_

"Jess!" A voice calls his name, cutting through the music streaming from his headphones into his ears. "Jess!" again—louder.

He sets down the manuscript he's been editing by hand—maybe it comes from all his years of writing in the margins of books, but he'd rather mark up the work the old fashioned way, with a red pen, than sit at a computer and make electronic comments on a document that exists nowhere but on the screen. This is more tangible, more permanent. It leaves him with the feeling that he's left his mark and it can't be deleted with just the push of a button.

"Phone," Chris calls from his desk, still shouting to be heard over Jess' private soundtrack, gesturing at the blinking red "hold" light.

"Who is it?" Jess asks, pulling the earbuds out.

"Some chick named Liz," Chris informs him. "Says you're not answering your cell."

Jess rolls his eyes and reaches for the extension, ready to punch in the pick-up code.

"New girl? Valentine's date?" Chris ribs, just before Jess picks up the receiver.

Jess snorts. "My mother," he replies.

Chris ponders that for a few seconds, "Yeah, she didn't sound like your type," he comments. "Too ditzy. But dude—you sure that's your mom? She sounded way too young."

"Well, that's kind of a side effect of giving birth at seventeen," Jess says casually, picking up the receiver and taking the phone off hold. "Liz?"

"Jess, sweetie, how are you?"

He wrinkles his forehead slightly at the volume, holding the phone away from his ear. "Fine," he says slowly, waiting for her to fill in the blanks.

"Sorry to bother you at work, but you weren't answering your cell." Jess reaches across the desk and pulls out the phone that was buried under a stack of papers, and sure enough, there are three missed calls, all from her number.

"Nah, it's fine," he reassures her. "I needed a break anyway—it'll be good to come back to this book with a fresh pair of eyes."

"What are you working on?" she asks, and Jess almost laughs out loud at the 'what do you have for homework today?' vibe in her question.

Still, he sighs and answers in something slightly more modulated than a monotone. "I'm editing a book by one of our new authors. She's pretty good; it's definitely more fun to work on than some of what crosses my desk."

Liz chuckles, a strange cross between a giggle, a sigh, and a proud utterance. "Sometimes, I still wonder where you got it from."

"Yeah, me too," Jess mutters under his breath, then raises his voice to a normal volume. "So, what's up?"

"Oh! Right—I called you for a reason." Jess smirks, leaning back in his chair and throws wadded up post-it notes at a garbage can across the room as Liz continues. "TJ and I are getting some things in order before this year's Faire starts next month—costumes, beads, booth supplies, some new parts for the display… Anyway, we decided to make a road trip out of it, instead of just getting all in Hartford, and we're in Philly today, actually. And…" she pauses, and Jess momentarily wonders what it's like to have the kind of relationship where 'let's have lunch' is a simple, three-word request that requires no justification or explanation.

"Yes, I'm free for lunch," he finishes for her.

"Great!" she enthuses, relief filling her voice. "Where do you want to go?"

Jess considers the options, then realizes that he doesn't want to try and agree on someplace over the phone, especially if TJ is with her. "Why don't you come by the office," he offers—may as well let her play the proud parent role to the hilt for a change.

"Oh," Liz starts, and Jess bites back a smile at the shock in her voice. "Okay. How do we get there?"

He gives her directions and hangs up the phone, rubbing his temples as he leans back and lets his head drop back over the top of his chair.

"Unghhhh," he groans, making a face at Chris, who's laughing, upside down in Jess' field of vision. "Shut up," he grunts, spinning his chair around and flopping forward, letting his head rest in his hands.

"Come on—it's not that bad," Chris says, still laughing. "It's just lunch."

"Not bad for you," Jess retorts. "You actually like your parents. Liz and TJ are…" How to explain them, let alone Jimmy and Sasha as well? There's a reason that Jess doesn't talk much about them, and it's not just that he's reluctant to share details about his personal life. It's just too complicated.

"Are…" Chris prompts, raising an eyebrow.

"Put it this way," Jess says, surprised that Chris is still interested in the conversation—this whole idea of having close friends who can flip between being invested in him, living and working with him, and just hanging out is still slightly foreign and new. "I didn't really have parents until I was seventeen. When I was a kid—nothing. Once I was pretty much on my own, all of a sudden, five of them came out of the woodwork."

"Five?"

Jess laughs. "Yeah—nothing in my family is normal. In my junior year, Liz decided she couldn't handle me, and she sent me to live with my uncle, who's definitely the most stable of the bunch—and actually, I'm pretty close to him now. So, that's Luke, and then around that time, Liz decided to get her act together and try to be a mom, kinda, and then she married TJ—who I don't really consider my stepfather, but since he's married to my mom, he's around anyway."

"So, that's three of them," Chris comments, propping his feet upon his desk and resting his hands behind his head.

"Think it's a long story?" Jess mocks, giving Chris' chair a kick, sending it rolling backwards and sending Chris' arms and legs flailing.

"You're so screwed up, it's gotta be a long story," Matthew pipes up from where he's been sitting silently at his desk, listening to the entire exchange.

"Not really," Jess says. "Jimmy's a pretty short chapter."

"Jimmy?" Matthew comments. "Man, you don't have a 'mom' and a 'dad'? You've got a Luke and a Liz and a TJ and a Jimmy and a…" he trails off.

"Sasha," Jess fills in.

"Sasha," Matthew repeats, ticking off a fifth finger. "Yep—weirder than I thought."

Jess throws a ball of rubber bands across the room, which Chris plucks out of mid-air with a quick motion, whipping it back at Jess and grazing him across the back of the head. "Finish your story," Chris demands.

Jess shoots him a dirty look, then concedes, "Jimmy showed up at Luke's when I was 18. I'd never met him before, but I was messed up and dumb, so I took off to California, showed up on his doorstep, and lived with him; his girlfriend, Sasha; and Lily, Sasha's daughter, for a couple of months before I got bored and moved back to New York. See? Short story," he finishes, turning his chair back around to his desk.

Chris lets out a long, low whistle. "So, should we be worried that you're going to get bored with us and take off next week?" he asks, his tone light.

Jess flinches inwardly, suddenly irritated with the questions, even though he knows that Chris has no way of knowing how likely it once was that he would just take off. He keeps the smirk pasted on his face as he spins his chair once more so he's facing Chris directly. "Bored? Nah. Tired of cleaning up your messes in the kitchen? Possibly."

"So now that you've got all these parent-ish figures to make up for not having any as a kid, do you at least get extra Christmas presents?" Matthew asks, deflecting the conversation away from Jess' jibe at Chris' cleaning habits, a constant point of contention in their house.

Jess laughs stiffly, beginning to regret the fact that he had brought up his parents at all. "Sometimes," he says. "They're not making up for lost time, but at least I get something from everyone now."

"Do you see them often?" Matthew shoots the comment over his shoulder as he turns back to his desk.

"More than I used to," Jess allows, giving in again to the fact that this conversation isn't going away. "I'm trying—so are they, I think. It's taking us a while, but it's better than it used to be. Luke and I are good—I spent Christmas with him and his fiancée, and Liz and TJ. I talk to Jimmy once a month or so, but that's still weird. He's more like a… I don't even know," he flounders.

"Uncle? Brother?" Chris suggests.

Jess laughs. "Definitely not. He just doesn't know how to be a dad. And I don't know how to have a dad. But we try," he says, picking up the headphones again and running the cord back and forth between his fingers.

The phone rings, interrupting their conversation. "Truncheon Books," Matthew answers, sending the office back into work mode. Chris goes back to the budget spreadsheet he's been working on, Matthew leans back, puts his feet up, and settles into the phone conversation, and Jess puts the earphones back in, picking up the manuscript again to skim once more, biding his time for the few minutes before Liz and TJ arrive.

Four hours later, he's been sitting at his desk with the manuscript in front of him, open to the same page for the past two hours, but he's been unable to focus on it for more than two seconds at a time. He's still reeling from the lunch, and the tidbit of information that Liz dropped casually, as though it's no big deal.

"_Have you seen Luke since Christmas?"_

"_Nah," Jess said. "Work has been too busy—we're getting ready for a big open house in about six weeks, and it's taking a lot of time to get the extra artists ready for that, plus all our usual work."_

"_So you haven't met April yet? I've only met her once; Luke doesn't take her out much—she just hangs out at the diner, or they go to a park or something."_

"_I haven't met her yet," TJ chimed in. _

_Wait—April? Jess was definitely missing something. "April?"_

_Liz and TJ exchanged a look, discretion and subtlety prevailing for once. Jess' stomach sank. This couldn't be good—not if they were reacting this way._

"_April?" he repeated._

_Liz finally sighed. "Luke's daughter," she said reluctantly. "He hasn't told you about her?"_

_He choked on his water, sputtering and coughing as his mind reeled. Daughter? Of everything that Liz could have told him, this was the last thing he could have expected._

Daughter? his mind screams again as he throws down the manuscript, the pages scattering across the desk and falling onto the floor. Great. Now he'll have to put it all back in order before he can keep working.

"Jess?" Matthew interrupts him, tentatively breaking into his mental tirade.

"What?" he barks, trying to put the papers back together.

"Phone. It's Kim."

Jess curses under his breath. He's not in the mood to talk to this author—or to any of their artists, actually. "Voice mail," he instructs. "I'm not taking anything for the rest of the day."

"Are you okay?" Matthew asks, concerned.

"Yeah," Jess snaps, slamming the half-stack of papers on his desk, pushing his chair back from his desk and launching himself out of it and across the room before he realizes that Matthew is staring at him. "Sorry," he mutters, inclining his head toward his friend apologetically. "I'm going for a walk," he says, already halfway out the door. "I'll be back in the office tomorrow—if it's an emergency, you can deal with it." He slams the door before either Matthew or Chris can reply.

The walk doesn't clear his head, though—if anything, the situation just gets more and more muddled the longer he's outside. The questions keep coming, a barrage of whys and whats and hows filling his mind and heart, shaking him to the core.

A twelve-year-old daughter? The thought bounces around his brain and won't grab onto anything, refusing to find a place to stick. Phrases that make no sense keep pounding against his skull, disjointed pieces of information that Liz had given him once she realized that he knew nothing about the situation. Age, birth date, last name, facts, stats, one after the other, no time to process. She was disassociated, disjointed, and unemotional, which used to be her standard operating mode, but Jess hadn't seen her like that since she sobered up and turned her life around. Does she not care? Or is it just that she's has more time to get used to this?

Or maybe, he realizes, his footsteps getting faster, she does care, as more bits and pieces of the lunch come back to him—flashes of her face and expressions. The tiny glow of pride when she talked about April's love of science, the slightly wistful look at the fact that she has a niece, the surge of anger at the mention of April's mother.

TJ had been uncharacteristically quiet, though, picking at his burger and fries until Liz changed the subject, moving from Luke's daughter (Luke's daughter! The words still bump together like pieces from two different puzzles) to questions about Jess' work at Truncheon and how "The Subsect" is selling. Then he had jumped back into the conversation with both feet, cutting off sentences and interrupting until Jess was more than ready to send them on their way by the time lunch was over. To be honest, though, he doesn't remember the last hour of the conversation. Everything happened on autopilot, answering questions, nodding, smiling, reacting, becoming a little more agitated with every minute he has to sit and be polite.

He moves faster, his feet beating the ground beneath him, propelling him forward without thought or a destination. The cold February wind whips through his jacket, chilling him, but he hardly notices. His mind is almost racing fast enough to keep him warm, anyway.

Luke is the stable one. If Jimmy or TJ had showed up with a long-lost, unknown daughter, Jess wouldn't have been surprised. He wouldn't go so far as to say that he would _expect _it, but he definitely wouldn't be taken aback by the news. Luke, though? Luke's the go-to guy to get everyone else back on track. Luke's the one in the family who rescues the rest of them. He's not the one who needs to be rescued.

This turns everything upside down, and it shocks Jess when the realization hits him that he's disappointed. He's angry with Luke for letting this happen—hurt that Luke didn't trust him enough to tell him—resentful at April for being the cause of this pain and upheaval—vulnerable, feeling like one leg of his support system has been pulled out from under him, and suddenly everything is wobbly.

And—he pauses, hands on his knees, panting, as a cramp hits his gut at the same instant that a white flash of clarity stops him cold.

Lorelai. Luke and Lorelai. What is this doing to them? He's never been so concerned for Lorelai's well-being before, but he suddenly wants the reassurance that she's okay. They must be fine, though. They've got to be—Luke wouldn't let anything get between them. Right? Even Jess knows that he waited too long, tried too hard, pined too much to let it suffer.

And then, his thoughts travel, and… Rory. Jess sits on a concrete stoop and runs his hands through his hair, now damp from the sweat beading on his forehead. Rory. His eyes shut and he groans out loud, although he's not sure why this evokes such a strong wrenching reaction in him.

She has to be fine, too. She _has_ to be. She'll bond with April, and she'll be like a big sister, and everyone will adjust. Luke will adjust to being a dad; Lorelai will adjust to having a step-daughter, reliving the years she's already walked through with Rory; and Rory will adjust to having a little sister.

And Jess will adjust to Luke's fallibilities, right?

Right?

Then why does he have such a feeling of foreboding? Why does everything in him say that a disaster is brewing?

He slams his hands into the stair, pushing himself up, the rough surface of the concrete scraping against his palms, racing back to the office, his feet beating out the rhythm running through his head. "Be okay, be okay, be okay, be okay." It's all he can focus on, and there's no peace along with the mantra—it churns itself around and around, agitating more the further he runs.

When he bursts through the office door, the room is dark, and the sounds of dinner being made and the TV turned on are filtering down from upstairs. He can't go up yet, though, so he sinks into the chair at his desk, drained emotionally, muscles burning.

Jess reaches for the phone, ready to dial Luke's number, wanting to make sure that he's okay, wanting to be there somehow, but the words won't come. His throat closes, and he can't force his fingers to get through more than the first three digits, and as much as he wants the whole story, he doesn't think he can handle it yet.

Instead, he turns on his computer, leaning back with his eyes closed as it starts up. Logging into his email, he poises his fingers over the keyboard, a moment of calm, before the flow of words comes.

"Are you okay?" he types. "I heard about the 'new addition' to the family today—this new addition that's already 12 years old—and as much as it surprised me, you must be even more baffled by it. Or not. Maybe by now, you've had time to process it, and everything's normal for you—for all four of you together—but I can't shake the feeling that it's not. Something feels off here, and I just hope that you're okay—that your mom's okay—that Luke's really okay. I hope they—you—all are, because I'm still not sure if I am. Can you be my eyes and ears? Let me know if things are bad, okay? For any of you. I'm still trying to figure out what 'being family' really means, and this is as good a place as any to jump into the deep end. No one ever said my life was simple, did they?"

He re-reads the email, clicks send, and shuts down the computer, sitting in the dark office with only the faint hum of the computers in their sleep modes in the background, and when he finally goes upstairs, it's dark, and Chris and Matthew are both sleeping soundly.

Even so, the deafening silence rings in his ears, keeping him awake long into the night.

* * *

**Author's Note: **My biggest thanks, yet again, to **adina**, for the amazing beta, and for being so patient with all my musings about the plot development. This story is going places and exploring themes that I never dreamed it would when I started, and she's been a fantastic partner in opening up all the possibilities. 


	13. Be Okay, Okay?

**Author's Note: **As always, this wouldn't be nearly as good as it is without **adina**'s help and advice. Also, for this chapter, I owe a great debt to **Lady M** and her intimate understanding of Rory and Logan's relationship, and her willingness to be taken on an emotional roller coaster ride in order to make this more real. I'm completely indebted to both of these amazing writers (seriously—check out their stories!) for so many of the nuances of this chapter.

Just a quick note about the timeline—this chapter takes place about a week before "Bridesmaids Revisited," although a portion of the dialogue comes from "The Perfect Dress." Even though the season's timeline from then on makes very little sense, I'm going to take a slight liberty with it (hey, if Amy can do it, so can I!) and assume that Honor's wedding took place in mid-March.

* * *

**13: Be Okay, Okay?**

_Rory_

The invitation catches Rory's eye on the way out the door, reminding her that she still needs to buy a gift. It's been hanging on the fridge for a month, and Paris keeps telling her that she should just take it down and forget the whole thing, but it's not that easy. She's been debating for weeks whether or not she'll actually go, waffling back and forth, but now that the day is only a week away, she knows she won't go. She'll send a gift, write a nice card, and get together with Honor when they get back from their honeymoon, but she can't subject herself to actually go to the wedding. She won't be able to avoid the rest of the Huntzbergers forever, but she can put it off as long as possible. And, more than that, she can make sure that her first encounter with them isn't at a family event, where they're out in droves.

This is almost the worst part of the break-up. When she's most angry with Logan, when there's no inkling of wanting him back, she can tell herself that losing everyone else that came as the package deal—Honor, Colin, Finn—is actually is the worst part. She and Honor have gotten together for coffee, lunch, shopping, but it's not quite the same. It's a little awkward and stilted, and they've pressed through it, but after the wedding, when so much of Honor's life is changing anyway, Rory's not sure how long even that will last. Without a reason to see each other, she has the feeling that their friendship will fade to lunch once every few months, rather than once a month, then twice a year, then even less, and soon, they'll just be Christmas-card acquaintances.

No one told her that breaking up involved losing so much more than just a boyfriend, a dream, a vision for one of the futures that her life could be. There was an element of all those with Logan himself, but there was more, too. Yes, she was getting rid of the possibility of vindictive and ruthless in-laws, but she was also losing friends—someone who was beginning to become like a sister, a quiet ally who knew what it felt like to try and become part of the family, two goofy guys who would do anything for her.

She's already lost them, though. They've all tried, and it had lasted for a while, but old alliances ring true, as much as she wishes they could have it all. She's managed to hang on for longer with Honor than with any of the guys, but with all of them, things changed the moment Logan ceased to be part of her day-to-day life. It's taken almost as much to get used to that as it did getting used to his absence.

Rory had never experienced anything quite like this before—losing Dean's family was more about losing the potential—even after so many years being in their lives off-and-on, they weren't close, and she didn't really miss them, but, she supposed, she lost the chance to build a future with them. When she broke up with Jess, she didn't lose anyone else; it was just him—and even that, on its own, was devastating enough to send her reeling, the shocks reverberating through her life for months.

With Logan, though, she feels the loss of the future acutely—the amputation of an entire path that her life could have taken. Four months later, she's still getting used to the idea that it's not going that way anymore—it can't be. And the phantom pains are becoming less and less frequent, but there are some days—days like today, when she wishes more than anything that she could be at Honor's wedding—when the loss stings as though it had just happened.

Rory shakes it off, making a mental note to buy and send the wedding gift soon, and pulls on a jacket over her sweater, slinging her purse over her shoulder and picking up an armful of books. She takes one last glance at the invitation on her fridge as she pulls the door shut behind her, locking the deadbolts and making sure everything's latched tightly before she heads down the hallway, eager to get out into the early spring sunshine and the mild temperatures. There's a slight spring in her step, no doubt brought on partially by the weather, but she's not going to question it. She's just thankful that the cold has lifted and the snow is beginning to melt.

She's running early, which is a nice change—it's a relief to not feel rushed, to have a few minutes to sit down with her coffee and a book before class. _Before class._ It still gives her a little thrill after such a long absence. Even when she's overwhelmed by reading and papers, there's a different feeling, a different appreciation of it, than there was before. Ever since Christmas, she's gotten a second wind, pushing her through on a wave of renewed vision and motivation. There's still a lot of work to do, a lot of catch-up, but the challenge isn't daunting her. _Yet,_ she thinks ruefully, finding an empty bench and pulling out a novel, allowing herself a few minutes of pleasure reading, keeping one eye on her watch.

A shadow falls over her book, which she ignores at first, waiting for the person to keep walking and pass her by, but whoever it is stops, the shadow remaining on the page. Her first idle thought is that the line for the coffee kiosk has gotten incredibly long, but she dismisses it as her eyes adjust to the lack of light on the page. The shadow stays, though, and she finally looks up, her heart jumping into her throat when she sees Logan standing over her, waiting silently.

"Geez, Logan," she exhales, catching her breath. "You scared me." The first words exchanged in months, and he sneaks up on her out of nowhere. So much for a blazing, scathing tirade against him.

"Sorry," he apologizes, gesturing to the empty space on the bench beside her. "May I?"

"I've got class," she tries to brush him off, tucking her book back into her bag, preparing to leave.

"Can we get coffee later?" he asks.

Rory sighs, walking away from him. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Come on," he persists, running a few steps to catch up with her. "I just want to talk to you for a few minutes."

"Not now," she replies, irritated, walking a little faster.

Logan reaches out for her arm, grazing it before he pulls his hand back again. "Rory," he says strongly, his tone, rather than his touch, stopping her escape.

She whirls around, crossing her arms over her chest. "What?"

"Please have coffee with me," he pleads, his tone softening. "After your class, before you head to the paper—can I just have half an hour?"

"Fine," she concedes, giving him a time and place that fits her schedule. "Half an hour. Eleven-thirty at the kiosk beside the newspaper office."

"See you then," he confirms, tucking his hands in his pockets and walking the other direction far too nonchalantly for the conversation they've just had. Rory stares after him until he disappears around a corner, then grimaces as she wheels back on her heel, berating herself the entire walk into her classroom.

She gets nothing out of the class, her brain and heart doing flip-flops for the entire hour and a half; her stomach churning, working her into a nervous wreck before the class is over. Nearly five months. She hasn't even seen him, except for a few glimpses across a busy room or through a crowd, and suddenly, here he is, acting like nothing has happened—like everything's normal, and they're just going to "grab a cup of coffee." When the class ends, she shoots out of the room, rather than lingering to ask questions and mull over the material with the professor or other students—she needs the few minutes before she actually meets up with Logan to freak out, prepare herself, and drive herself crazy speculating what he wants to talk about.

Rory checks her watch as she makes her way across campus. 10:45. Just long enough to drop her bag at the newspaper and have the upper hand—does she want to be there first, waiting for him, or does she want to keep him waiting for a few minutes, reminding him that she's got a life? Keep him waiting, she decides, even though it goes against every fiber of her punctual being.

When she approaches the kiosk forty-five minutes later, he's already sitting on the bench nearby, holding two cups of coffee.

"Here," he says, holding one out for her. "I went ahead and fixed it the way you like it."

She takes it wordlessly, praying that her face isn't revealing any of the emotions churning inside her, from the butterflies in her stomach to the sudden swell of missing him to the flash of anger that shoots through her to the appreciation of the coffee's strong aroma. She doesn't want him to see any of it flashing across her face—this is already on his terms; she's going to make him work for anything else she's going to give him.

Logan sighs, taking a sip out of his own cup, his eyes trained on her the entire time. "So, you're living with Paris and Doyle this semester," he comments, keeping his voice casual.

"What do you want, Logan?" Rory asks wearily, already emotionally drained by the encounter, and they haven't even talked about anything substantial yet.

"Their place is a dump, Rory. You can't live there."

She stops, coffee cup raised halfway to her lips, and stares at him incredulously. "I'm sorry? I can't live there?"

"It's dangerous—it's not a safe neighborhood."

"How do you know where—you know what?" she cuts herself off. "Never mind. I don't want to know. You ask me for coffee, and all you can talk about is where I'm living? You want to waste the half hour you have with me talking about that!" Rory stops, taking a deep breath to calm herself down. "You don't get to care about where I live anymore, Logan."

"Rory," he starts, "I just want—"

"No," she states firmly. "You don't get to 'just want' anymore. If you've got something to say, then say it—otherwise, why are we here? You don't get to make small talk about my living situation. You don't get to be concerned." Her voice rises, escalating as she becomes more agitated. "You broke up with me. Through your sister!"

Logan's face blanches, then two spots of color rise in his cheeks. "I didn't mean for that to happen!"

"You're a coward!" Rory scoffs, still trying to hide the conflicting emotions under a veneer of disdain and bravado. "Mr. Life and Death Brigade can't even break up with his girlfriend." Her voice cracks on the last word, and she flinches inwardly, disgusted with herself for losing that tiny bit of control.

"Honor was bugging me and I just told her we broke up to shut her up. I needed some time," Logan retorts.

Rory's eyes widen. "Honor was bugging you?" she repeats. "What are you—five? You're making major life decisions based on the fact that your sister was bugging you?" He opens his mouth to respond, but she barrels on. "So you didn't mean it?" she asks, frustration rising. Neither answer is good—he did mean it, and just didn't have the consideration to actually tell her that they were finished? He didn't mean it, and he's taken five months to decide whether or not they're worth fixing? Still, a part of her _needs_ to know, even though she doesn't _want_ to.

"No, I did!" At his words, Rory lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "I just—it was too much for me. Okay?"

No. It's not okay. She hadn't wanted to meet, but now, she just wants get everything out in the open. She wants answers—closure—finality. "It was a fight!" she yells, slamming down her coffee cup on the bench, a tiny fountain spurting out of the top. "People fight!"

"Yeah, well, I don't fight! I don't want to be screaming at you at a bar." _No,_ Rory thinks, _but you obviously don't have a problem screaming at me on a bench beside a coffee kiosk in the middle of the campus._ "I can't take that. It's too much drama."

"Well, if you can't take the drama, then you shouldn't even be in a relationship," she shoots back, and in a bizarre detachment from the moment, her head is clear enough to be impressed that she's coming up with good comebacks and not freezing up in the heat of the moment. "Which, by the way, you're not. So everything's good."

Rory picks up the coffee cup and prepares to leave, hoping she can get the last word in, but Logan's soft sigh and his resigned voice stops her. "It's not that easy."

"Sure it is," she says, keeping her back to him, refusing to look at him—refusing to let him get to her.

"No," he states clearly. "It's not." He stops, and Rory can almost feel him reaching out, trying to get her to turn around. Reluctantly, she meets his eyes again, and the frustration she had seen earlier is gone, replaced by a deeper sadness. "I thought that I wanted to break up. I thought that it was a stupid experiment, me trying to be a boyfriend, and that it didn't work and I'd just move on. And I didn't. Couldn't, actually."

She closes her eyes briefly, cutting the intensity of his gaze. "Rory!" Logan's voice is low, compelling, but she resists, turning her face away, not letting herself be blindsided by the combination of his look and his voice. "I love you," he says firmly and unequivocally.

The words take a moment to sink in, and her body reacts before her mouth can, her head shaking back and forth wildly like a child. "No." She repeats herself, not trusting herself to believe his words. Not trusting him to be telling her the truth with no ulterior motives. "No—it doesn't work that way."

"Why not?" he persists, leaning in toward her slightly. "Why can't it?"

"Because I loved you," she nearly shrieks, hysterical. "I loved you, and you broke me, and I had to get over it. I've spent all this time getting _over_ loving you, and you're not allowed to come back and tell me that you love me now. You didn't talk to me for five months!" Rory snaps herself back to the present, leaning back from him, crossing her arms over her chest. "_You_ decided that it wasn't worth it. _You_ decided that you didn't want to talk to me. _You _broke up with me through your sister—at Thanksgiving dinner! Do you know how hard that was? How much it ruined my holiday?"

"And you had no responsibility in this?" Logan says, lips tightening, a thin white line appearing around the edge. "You couldn't have called me? It was all my responsibility? Why is it all my fault?"

"Because you decided that it was a break-up, not a fight! I thought we were just taking some time apart, and I was waiting for you to cool down, get over yourself, and call me." Rory blows out a frustrated breath. "This is pointless, Logan," she sighs. "There's nothing left here—why are we still fighting about something that ended months ago? It doesn't matter whose fault it was; the point is, it's over. There's nothing left."

"But it doesn't have to be over," he argues. "We're good, Ace. You know we are—you know we can be. We can work—I'm willing to make it work. I miss you. We're better together than we are apart. Can you give us another chance? Please?"

She presses her lips together to quell the rush of emotion that hits her suddenly. Three months ago, these were the words she wanted most to hear, but now, they're not enough to erase everything. "I can't," she says more strongly than she feels.

"Is there someone else?" Logan asks, a guarded mask shutting off his face completely.

"No!" Rory immediately responds, then repeats more softly, "No—there's no one else."

"Oh," he says, his expression and tone unreadable. They sit in silence for a moment, suspended in the balance between comfortable and awkward, between the familiarity of an old intimacy and the raw wounds of a lost love.

"Why did—" Rory starts, at the same time as Logan says, "What did—"

She exhales a nervous burst of laughter as he gestures for her to go first. "Why now?" she asks.

Logan shrugs, lifting one shoulder, giving him a slightly vulnerable air. "It's empty," he says simply. "I couldn't move on. I couldn't go back—you changed me, and I don't want to be who I was before. It's pointless and dry, and there's nothing left there. I want to be who I am with you, not who I am without you."

Rory shakes her head again before he's even finished talking, just once, unlike her frantic response earlier, and her answer overlaps his explanation. "No," she says. "You can be a different person without me—it's not fair to put that kind of pressure on me. I can't be that for you." She takes a deep breath, turning so that she's facing him head-on, tucking one foot up underneath her leg. "You can do it—I know you can, Logan. You've got talent and drive, and you've got more to you than just being the risk-taking party guy. You know it, and I know it, but it can't be just because of me. I've got enough of a challenge putting my own life back together—I can't put yours together, too."

He closes his eyes briefly, a slight concession of defeat, but Rory can see him renewing his defenses, even in a slight straightening of his posture, shutting a tiny piece of himself off. "So that's it?" he asks. "We're done?"

"Logan," Rory says with a slight laugh, "we were done a long time ago."

"Okay," he says, more brightly than he needs to, pushing himself up. "I'll see you around, I guess," he says, starting to walk away.

He only gets a few steps before Rory calls him back. "Logan, wait."

He turns back, and she gestures for him to sit down again—now that they've come this far, she needs to finish. She needs to say everything that needs to be cleared between them, so they can both move on, even if he doesn't see it yet. He sits, uncharacteristically uncomfortable, at the other end of the bench. "What?"

"I want you to be okay," she says sincerely. "And I need you to know that I'm okay. I wasn't—not for a lot of the time that we were together—" she holds up a hand to cut him off as he begins to protest. "It wasn't your fault. I'm not blaming you, but you didn't get me at my best. There were more factors playing into it than you ever knew, but a lot has changed lately, and that's a good thing. I'm figuring out who I am, and you were part of that, so…" she trails off, letting her thanks be implied. "I don't regret it," she finishes.

Logan gives her a half-smile, the grin looking incomplete without the laughing eyes that usually accompany it. "Me neither," he agrees.

A silence falls as they sit together for what Rory realizes is probably the last time, and she feels the same keen sense of loss, a flash of a future never realized, that she was overwhelmed with earlier in the morning. This—the camaraderie, the longing to make each other better—is what she realizes now had been missing in their relationship. This is what they were too frantic, insecure, and immature, even, to enjoy, and even though she tells herself she'll find it again with someone, she knows it's not here, not now, not with Logan. Life with him has just been too dramatic, and the quiet moments of just _being_ were too few and far between. She'd loved him, but that hadn't been enough, and she can't continue to let herself wonder what it would have taken to make it work. The thought chokes her up, and she clears her throat, trying to clear her head along with it, but not succeeding very well.

They could have been, she realizes. In a different time, a different place, a better circumstance, they might have been good—they may have lasted. As it is, though, it was a love, but Rory sighs with the realization that it's not the love of a lifetime.

She has to go—leave before her resolve breaks and she gives in. "Hey," she says, clearing her throat and getting Logan's attention.

"Yeah?"

"Give Honor a hug for me next week," she says, picking up her purse and the empty coffee cup.

"You're not going to the wedding?" he asks, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"No," Rory says, as they both stand up. "It would be too weird and awkward. I'll send a gift, and we'll go for coffee when they get back from the honeymoon, but I can't go to the wedding." Logan nods, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets as they begin walking slowly towards the newspaper office. "I can't be around your family—or you, for that matter—right now," she continues. "But send her my love, and tell her that I wish I could be there. Okay?"

"Sure," Logan agrees, "I'll let her know."

They stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. "I'm going…" Rory gestures to the right, pointing toward the office.

"I'm not," Logan points the other way, back in the direction of his apartment.

Rory's mouth turns up. "You're not going to work on the paper today?"

He grins. "What do you take me for, Ace? I said I changed, not that I suddenly became responsible."

"Well…" she lets her voice trail off, trying to find the words. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah," he nods, reaching out and enfolding her into a hug. "You too," he mumbles into her hair, and she lets herself relax one last time into the familiar fit of her cheek against his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her. She can feel him rest, too, his heartbeat slowing down to a calm, familiar rhythm as he pulls her against him. One arm tightens around her shoulders, the other wraps around her waist, drawing her into the perfect fit that their bodies have molded together—the way they still fit—and as she closes her eyes, breathing him in, she stiffens her body slightly, reluctantly pushing herself away from him.

"Bye, Logan," she whispers, turning and walking in the opposite direction, her throat tight and her eyes bright, stinging with unshed tears. She refuses to look back, willing herself not to check and see if he's still standing there, watching her go.

_TBC…_


	14. Swagger

**Author's Note:** Here we go! I apologize for the delay, but real life (what? what's that!) got in the way for a while. Of course, my thanks to **adina**, who keeps me entertained and puts up with my crazy writing sprees that give her more to beta in three days than she's had for weeks!

* * *

**Chapter 14: Swagger**  
_Jess_

The invitations have been printed and mailed out, the room has been cleared, new artwork has been hung, PR calls have been made to the local media, the caterers are setting up their food, all the artists have arrived, there have been no panicked phone calls saying that anyone is late or stuck in traffic.

Jess runs through the mental checklist again, blowing out a nervous breath as he checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror one more time. Why is he so nervous? This is their second open house, and at this one, unlike the last, Jess isn't even presenting his own work. At the last one, back in September, he'd not only been helping to run the evening; he'd also read an excerpt from "The Subsect." As one of Truncheon's new artists at the time, it had all been a part of the marketing and publicity strategy—and the fact that he was working there by the time the book was published didn't exempt him from the public introduction.

Still, he's more invested now. This is _his_ company, as much as it belongs to the other guys, too, and failure isn't an option. It's not just his own book on the line—for some reason, the prospect of that failing, while a devastating one, was still manageable, because it was just him. Adding in all the other artists, though, not to mention Chris, Matthew, Nathan, and Dan, makes the concept that this could bomb hit very close to home.

And, of course, he tells himself, the nerves have nothing to do with the personal invitations he sent out this time. It's all about the business. Once everything is underway tonight, his stomach will stop flipping. When everyone and everything is where it needs to be, when there's nowhere else for things to go wrong, Jess will be able to relax and enjoy the evening. Until then, there are too many things that can happen at the last minute. But he'll pretend to be relaxed, maybe even fooling himself into thinking, for a few minutes, that he actually is. Maybe he'll even be able to salvage some enjoyment out of the preparations, even though he's not holding his breath.

He splashes his face with cool water, runs his fingers through his hair one more time, making a mental note that he still hasn't gotten that haircut he's needed for at least a month, and goes downstairs to the office, taking the steps two at a time.

"Jess!" Nathan, who's carrying a large painting that nearly obscures his entire body, nabs him as he reaches the bottom. "The caterers need to talk to you."

Jess groans—hopefully this won't take long; he's still got to bring down all the drinks from the upstairs refrigerator. He's still not sure how he got stuck with food duty—must be the fact that, once upon a time, he worked in a diner, and they won't let him forget it. At least he doesn't have to cook, and even what they're bringing in isn't fancy. Fruit and veggie platters, sandwich trays, dessert trays—finger foods. Hardly even worth being called "hors d'oeuvres," really. The hardest part—assuming that the caterers haven't forgotten to bring the food or something equally disastrous—was finding refrigeration for the cases of beer and soda. It had all ended up in their fridge upstairs, taking over the entire space, since the mini-fridge in the office was barely big enough to hold a couple of lunches, a six-pack of Coke, and some expired individual yogurts that someone had left and no one had bothered to clean out.

Forty-five minutes later, guests are starting to arrive, oblivious to any of the crises—real or imagined—that had threatened to plague the evening, and Jess is starting to breathe again as he, Chris, and Matthew argue about where they should hang out afterwards, when the adrenaline is pumping but their bodies need to relax.

"We need our own bar," Matthew's saying, emphasizing a point that was agreed on long ago.

Jess sighs. "You say it like I'm fighting you. I'm not fighting you."

"Same here," Chris chimes in, exchanging an amused glance with Jess.

Matthew gets more passionate, gesturing with his hands as he speaks. "We need a public place where the next Tachunen can run into the next Franz Klein and diss the next Jackson Pollock while the next Charlie Parker shoots up in the corner."

"So a nice family place," Jess laughs, punching Matthew good-naturedly in the shoulder.

"I'm not kidding!" Matthew retorts, getting more agitated. "We'll call it… Cedar Bar Redux."

Jess bends over double, as though the suggestion itself has punched him in the gut. "I would kick my own ass if we called it that," he says, goading Matthew.

Chris pretends to think for a second. "Why don't we call it…" he pauses, making sure Matthew will react, "'Devoid of Original Ideas Poseur Bar'?"

"Go to hell." Matthew turns away, giving Jess and Chris the satisfaction of having successfully pissed him off. "Both of you."

"Hey, hey, hey," Jess calls after him, holding his arms wide, "come back for a hug, man." He spreads his arms wider, almost giddy in his relief that, so far, nothing is falling apart, and Chris nudges him in the ribs, laughing, as Matthew shoots them both a scathing glare as he walks toward the bar.

Chris points in the opposite direction than Matthew's walking. "Hey," he says, pointing to a short, slim brunette with a black messenger bag slung over her shoulder, "there's Alicia Matheson from the Weekly."

Jess' nerves return, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself, even as he assesses the situation and makes an instant decision. "Okay," he says, looking around the room. "Grab Matthew. Get him off the bar thing." Because, despite the fact that he's uptight and, apparently, has no sense of humor tonight, there's a reason that Matthew handles most of the press and PR for Truncheon. "Have him show her around—it's what he does best."

"Cedar Bar Redux," Chris mutters under his breath as he walks away, and Jess can't hold back a chuckle, which he almost chokes on when he recognizes someone with a very familiar stance in one corner of the gallery.

It takes him a moment to process what he's seeing, but he's inordinately amused to see Luke standing there, staring at the abstract painting on the wall, although he's not sure if it's because it's Luke, or if it's because it's Luke staring at an abstract painting. He almost wishes he had a camera, because this image is just too priceless to pass up—Luke is so the antithesis of a modern art aficionado that it should be one of those children's puzzles. "What's wrong with this picture?" and instead of a shoe on someone's head or a dog running through the clouds, Luke Danes is standing in a small gallery, taking in modern art.

Jess shakes his head, realizing that it wasn't too many years ago that some would have said the same thing about him, so change is possible—still, though, he doubts that Luke will be a convert any time soon.

"So my eyes don't deceive me," he finally says, still trying to mask the note of surprise in his voice, even though he's been watching Luke for several seconds. This is unexpected, to say the least. He'd thought that maybe, _maybe_, Liz would come, given her recent efforts at 'improving' things, but he was definitely not expecting Luke to take the time off to come to an open house.

"First things first," Luke says, turning to greet him with a slight grin. "What the hell is that?"

Jess laughs—this Luke looks oddly and uncharacteristically relaxed and at ease, even in these unfamiliar surroundings. Grumpy, slightly cantankerous, but lacking the quality that's been there every time Jess has talked to him recently—that something uneasy and turbulent under the surface; something Jess wouldn't even know how to begin to address, even if he wanted to. He's pretty sure it's not his imagination—Liz keeps asking if Luke has said anything to him, and every time Jess has talked to her, she's seemed more concerned.

"It's an abstract painting," Jess says cheekily.

"But what's it supposed to be?" Luke asks, the first shades of frustration hinting his voice.

"Check the title," Jess shoots back, already knowing what Luke will find.

"I did. It's called 'Untitled,'" Luke snaps back, a smirk playing on his lips.

"So there you go," Jess responds, grinning.

"I give up."

"So you got the invite," he comments after a moment, surveying the room quickly for anything that could be going wrong, even as they speak.

"I got the invite," Luke confirms needlessly.

"Guess I didn't think you'd come," Jess says honestly, couching the low expectations with a half grin.

"You guessed wrong, Nephew," Luke ribs affectionately, and Jess gives him a look out of the corner of his eye. 'Nephew'? He's feeling particularly familial today, it seems.

"Cool." And it is. "So do you want the tour?"

Luke grins. "Gimme the tour."

Jess glances around the room that has really become a second home—a first home, really, if he takes into account the fact that "home" and "work" are only separated by a staircase—and wonders where, exactly, to begin. "Well, this is where we work—Truncheon Books. There's usually desks and crap piled up everywhere," he nods his head toward the center of the room, "but we cleaned up for today. There are five of us here most of the time, which is just enough guys in one place to be cramped and a little smelly, but no one seems to mind much."

"These," Jess leads Luke to a small display of books, "are the books that we put out. We publish our 'zine every month—except last August, when my partner forgot to pay the printer." He chuckles, remembering the panic of those first few months, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into, especially after Chris actually forgot to pay the printer's bill. He'd packed up his life in New York—not that there was much there anymore—and moved to Philly almost on a whim, following this job offer that came through months of emails and pitching his own book to them, and then to have something so potentially disastrous happen within the first few months—it was almost enough to make him pack up and move back.

He turns slightly, pointing to the gallery area behind him. "We let local artists hang their stuff up without ripping them off on commission. They rotate fairly frequently—Truncheon is starting to get a good reputation as a small gallery as well as a publishing house, so we often have people dropping in during the day, just to look around. Stuff doesn't sell overnight here, but most of the artists who display their work have sold at least one piece through us, so they keep coming back."

The crowd in the room is getting bigger as they turn back towards the center again. "We do performances over there," Jess points out. "We do these open houses for all the artists we represent about once every six months—they're good publicity things; we get all our new authors' work and faces out there, give the authors and artists a chance to meet each other. The rest of the time, we rent the performance space out really cheap for poetry readings and acoustic jam sessions—stuff you'd really love—there's usually someone in here about one night a week."

Luke nods, his eyes widening slightly as he listens to Jess discuss displays, performances, and commissions, and Jess has to laugh at the expression on his face. Disbelief, maybe? He can only guess, but Jess realizes that, even though they talk pretty regularly, they rarely discuss work, and this is the first time Luke has come to see him in what's become his natural environment.

He points towards the stairs, continuing his 'tour,' even though they've barely moved from where they were standing in the first place. "A few of us live upstairs—Chris, Matthew, and I—I'll try and introduce you to them later. Now that, you _don't_ want to see. It's a disaster."

Luke chuckles, and Jess feels himself flush slightly as he realizes that Luke knows exactly what it feels like to live in a too-small disaster zone above his work. He can't believe he didn't make that connection before—but then again, this is nothing like living in the cramped apartment above the diner, especially in his first days in Stars Hollow.

"Hey, I recognize this one," Luke says, cutting through Jess' slight embarrassment as he picks up a copy of "The Subsect," turning the small volume over in his hands. "I always meant to buy a second copy—I feel bad that mine was a gift, and you didn't even get any of the money from it or anything, but I couldn't find it anywhere after Andrew sold out of it."

"Yeah," Jess waves him off, "it's not exactly 'The DaVinci Code.'"

"Well," Luke sets the book back on the stack, "I will definitely get it today."

Jess shrugs in response, accepting the beer that Chris hands him as he walks past them. "Anyway, this is it," he changes the subject back, gesturing around them one more time, a note of pride involuntarily creeping into his voice, and Luke looks at him with what seems to be a combination of awe, pride, and just a hint of disbelief. Luke nods slowly, taking in the room—the clusters of conversation; the people perusing the books and artwork; the audience beginning to find seats on chairs, cushions, and the floor for the readings—then shakes his head slightly, as though waking himself up, exhaling a short chuckle.

"By the way," Luke says, as though he's just remembered, "that," pointing at a young girl across the room, "is your cousin."

April. Jess' heart skips a beat, and he fights to keep a neutral look on his face. "Right," he draws out the word, fighting to keep his tone casual. "Liz filled me in on all that… Daddy," he teases, trying for an offbeat, casual tone, nudging Luke with his elbow and pointing in April's general direction with his chin.

Luke shoots him one of his 'shut up, you dumb-ass punk' looks. "She just calls me Luke," he says, and Jess can see a shade of self-doubt cross his face, replaced quickly by an odd mix of pride and amusement. "Total brain."

"Did you confirm paternity?" He took a long swig of the beer, watching Luke out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't be a wiseass." Jess just laughs. "Hey, April," Luke calls across the room, "I want you to meet somebody." The girl, skinny and awkward in that preteen way, with thick brown hair, not unlike Jess' own, and red-rimmed glasses framing dark eyes, approaches them. "Meet your cousin Jess. He's my sister's kid."

"Hi," she states matter-of-factly, clearly appraising him.

"Hey," he replies, raising the bottle to take another drink as the three of them fall into awkward silence, this new family dynamic hanging thick over their heads. Well, Jess' head, at least. April is still watching him, and Luke's eyes are bouncing back and forth between them like he's watching a ping-pong ball, gauging both of their reactions, and for all Jess knows, this is normal by now for everyone else.

"Men in this family certainly aren't chatty," she comments.

"Sorry," Jess counters, feeling like an insolent teenager again for a split second before he actually lets her comment sink in and begins to appreciate it, biting back a laugh as she walks away, saying something to Luke about being 'over there.'

"How're you adjusting to all this?" Because he really doesn't know. Despite hearing from Liz that he seems to be more distracted and half-there than usual, and Rory's occasional emails telling him that she's still concerned about Lorelai, Jess hasn't talked to—hell, he hasn't even _seen_—Luke to form his own opinion on all of it.

Luke sighs slightly, then the corners of his mouth tip upwards. "Okay, I guess. I like her. She just sorta tolerates me."

Jess takes another drink. "Seems like it."

"Thanks for the perspective."

Jess grins a little. "That's why I'm here," and until he's got more to go on, that's all he can do. He looks around the room, seeing Matthew still talking to the reporter, but Chris, Dan, and Nathan have all disappeared, and the first poet is scheduled to go on soon. "I've gotta check and make sure everything's ready to go," he continues, "but I've got some sculpture over there you're really gonna hate. You should check it out."

Luke rolls his eyes at him, smirking. "Talk to you after?"

"Sure," Jess agrees, clapping Luke on the shoulder briefly.

Luke walks away, and Jess stares after him for a minute before shaking his head looking around the room for the guys so they can start the readings. So that's April. She's nothing like Jess expected—on the surface she seems nothing like Luke—but he can already see some of Luke's mannerisms in her, even after only a few months. Either she's overly susceptible to picking up other people's ticks, which, given their brief interaction, Jess is pretty sure is highly unlikely, or she's been a Danes since long before she realized she was.

He'd bet big money on the latter; he sees what Luke's insecurity and feigned nonchalance won't acknowledge—that this girl has been waiting a long time for that bizarre combination of independence and security that comes with recognizing herself in someone else. Jess should know—it's the same thing he tried to deny for years, ever since he realized that he and Luke walk the same way and clear their throats with the same odd cough; that he and Jimmy listen to music the same way and both fold their toast in half before eating it.

Even now, it unnerves him that he's so similar to both these men in so many ways—especially since neither of them was a major presence in his life until he was older—but somehow, he's genetically predisposed to bop his head and eat toast strangely and swagger. Maybe it just proves his stubbornness, but it's taken him a long time to accept that maybe, just maybe, everything he thought was independence and originality… isn't, but that it's okay to need that connection to something bigger.

He sighs, pressing his lips together slightly as he checks his watch and goes upstairs, thinking that he'd heard Chris mention something about getting more drinks. So Luke's a dad. It starts to make sense, finally, after seeing them together—seeing a curious admiration in her eyes and a disbelieving pride in his; seeing Luke's nose on a little girl's face.

And he's pretty sure he knows exactly how she feels.


	15. On a Whim

**15: On a Whim**

_Rory_

Rory taps her hand on the steering wheel along with the upbeat music, keeping time with the lines on the pavement as her car passes over them. It's liberating, being in the car with no set agenda—driving for pleasure instead of checking her watch and trying to beat traffic to class. She's been talking to herself, singing out loud, watching the sunset out the side window as she drives, and it's all kind of perfect, actually. A necessary break from school and the paper and her mom and everything else that's amazing, but sometimes stressful.

She giggles out loud, running a hand through her hair to brush it off her face. Even her inner monologue sounds delusional, she realizes, laughing at the reaction to this freedom. If this is what getting away does to her, maybe it's a good thing she doesn't get to do it more often. But it's so intoxicating—she understands why both she and her mother have a tendency to run away. The feeling is exhilarating—the freedom, the sense that everything is falling off behind her, a trail of dirty laundry strewn across her wake. And it's even better when she's not running away from anything. When she's simply following a whim and taking a chance; when everything else is good before she leaves. When the dirty laundry is less and the wind ruffles her hair and even the sunset is bright enough for sunglasses.

New Haven to Philadelphia on a whim, a note left for the roommates, and an invitation with a tiny map printed on the back tucked into the glove compartment of her car. Connecticut to Pennsylvania on a spur-of-the-moment decision, a pit stop for gas and road snacks, and whatever CDs happened to already in the car, and she wouldn't have it any other way. There's no time—minus the 3-and-a-half hours in the car, and by then it has to be too late—to second-guess herself or talk herself out of this.

The invitation must have been misplaced in the house before she found it, or Jess isn't that organized, or it got delayed in the mail, or maybe he just didn't think to invite her until the last minute, but for whatever reason, she didn't find it until today, leaving her with no time to plan, no chance to weigh it all out. No pro-con list, no rearranging her schedule. She just picked up her purse, got in the car, and started driving.

And now, here she is. On a highway somewhere, singing along to old familiar songs, a huge grin splitting her face, and she feels that familiar pride kicking back in—that hugely invested interest she has in Jess' success. She's read the book; now she wants to see where it all plays out, where he breathes in inspiration and exhales creativity.

Of course, it'll be nice to see him again too. She hasn't seen him since Christmas, and that hardly counted, since she'd been too sick to enjoy—or even be—good company. She wants to see him—to make sure he's doing well. There's an almost instinctive pull, a need to check up on him, a protective instinct that resurfaces every time he pops back into her life.

Almost more than even that, though, is the desire to let him know that _she's_ okay. That she's not the misguided mess that she was in the fall, or the run-down wreck from Christmas. She's okay. She's getting stronger and learning to be herself again, and he's partly to thank for that. And while she may not write him a book to say thank you, she'll do what she can.

He hadn't mentioned this open house in any of his emails—there have been several since the first, when he found out about April, sent back and forth, once a week or so. Mostly, they've focused on the bigger things than either of them or even both of them. Things like, _Have you met April yet? No, have you? Is Luke still acting weird? Has he said anything to you about it? Has he ever even mentioned her? Is Lorelai okay with all of it?_ Questions with no answers, and somehow, they haven't delved into much else.

Rory doesn't know—she has no answers to any of it, and sometimes she feels guilty for not trying to find them, but… as much as she loves her mom and Luke, it's easy, sometimes, to forget. When she's racing for a deadline at the paper, dealing with a roommate crisis, cramming as much information from a textbook into her brain as she possibly can, having civil conversations with Logan that don't veer towards heartbreak—when all of those threaten to overwhelm her at once, it's easy to forget that there's a long-lost daughter showing up in Stars Hollow and turning everything upside down.

Until, of course, she goes home, and sees the smile that her mom pastes on her face, hears the whispers of the town as they speculate and fill in the blanks with their own answers, knows without asking that Luke is sleeping above the diner again. Then it comes crashing down around her, weighing in and pressing down, even though she knows that her mom tries to keep it from her; tries to pretend that everything's fine.

Turning up the volume, Rory shakes herself out of her reverie, determined to enjoy this little break. She's not going to worry about home or Lorelai; she's going to have fun and reconnect with an old friend that she sees far too sporadically, and she'll worry about the rest of it later.

She slows down as she passes the city limits sign, unconsciously biting her lip as she pulls into a gas station and studies the small local map on the back of the invitation, then goes inside to ask for directions to the area shown.

Thirty minutes, two wrong turns, and one illegal u-turn later, she's pulling up in front of a nondescript building on Locust Street, thankful that there's still some street parking on the same block. She flips the invitation over again in her hand, glancing at her watch, which shows that the open house started half an hour ago, but she hopes that "open house" means that it's come and go, and no one will notice if she slips in late.

Suddenly, Rory's nervous, a flock of butterflies taking flight in her stomach. She takes a deep breath, pressing her hand to her abdomen, and blows out, trying to calm herself.

It's just Jess, right? Jess, who she's finally able to be herself around—who's finally become the kind of friend that she wished they could have been all along. Jess, whose shoes she threatened to throw up on the last time she saw him. So why does it feel like she's in high school all over again? Unfamiliar circumstances, she decides, squaring her shoulders and getting out of the car, locking the doors behind her with a beep. This is his comfort zone, so of course she's going to feel a little out of place, like she's stepping into something new and unfamiliar, because she is—nothing more than that.

As she opens the door and steps inside, it takes a minute for everything around her to sink in. A crowd of people is sitting on chairs, pillows, the floor, listening to someone doing a reading. A few more are in clusters around the perimeter of the room, taking in the various paintings on the walls and sculptures on display, discussing the work in hushed tones. A table with food and drinks is set up along one wall, in front of what looks like a stack of desks and filing cabinets, pushed into as small a space as possible, upended on each other, partly covered with a black curtain.

Rory moves a little further into the room, warmed and enveloped by the atmosphere. It's vibrant and alive, and it feels like a community—she can sense that there's a common ground, a common bond here, and it draws her in, makes her curious.

Automatically, she tries to picture Jess in this setting. It's a little bit of a stretch—and if it wasn't for the time she's spent with him or talking to him in the past few months, she wouldn't be able to do it at all—but as she lets her eyes drift shut, she can almost picture him in this room, working… on what? She realizes that she actually has no idea what his job entails, beyond promoting his own books and, she thinks, editing other people's. She'll have to ask, if she gets a chance to really hang out with him tonight. The more she stands there, letting herself take it all in, the more easily she can picture Jess inhabiting it, and the thought makes her smile slightly.

It hits her hard that he's probably busy. This is a bigger, more intricately planned event than she had imagined. Somehow, she'd been picturing something smaller, in someone's living room, with fewer elements. Instead, this is a well-planned night, the product of creative minds and an apparent commitment to do right by this community.

Rory almost turns to leave, second-guessing her decision to come. She doesn't even see him—why would she think that he wouldn't be busy? This is his job—apparently, one he does well—and it would be like asking him to come see her at the paper. They'd make time for a few minutes, definitely, but there just wouldn't be a lot of time to really spend time together.

A piece of artwork on the wall stops her from leaving, though, and before she realizes what she's doing, she's moving towards it to take a closer look, and it relaxes her, too. This could actually be good, she realizes, even if she doesn't get to spend much time with Jess. Her life is spent immersed in words and facts, and she can almost feel herself begin to unwind and loosen as the sensory experience overtakes the analytical one, and then she laughs at herself for even trying to put a name to it all. Just more proof of how much she needs this change in pace.

She hears him across the room before she sees him, instantly attuned to the low undertones of his voice, even though he's talking quietly, so as to not disrupt the reading. He looks good. Really good, and Rory is surprised at the way her heart skips a beat and she finds herself suddenly paralyzed, even though on the inside, she's fighting the urge to run over and hug him.

Instead, she watches him come down the stairs, deep in conversation with a dark-skinned guy with wild, curly hair, one of his roommates, she thinks, and waits for him to see her, because she doesn't think she could move now, even if she wanted to.

And it doesn't take long—as they reach the bottom of the stairs, Jess says something to the other guy, tapping him on the arm with an easy familiarity, and they separate, walking through the crowd in different directions. Jess glances around the room with a practiced eye, and Rory recognizes it as a less surly, more refined version of the "is everyone's coffee cup full?" survey of the diner.

He looks… comfortable and in charge and confident all at once, and Rory knows instinctively that she's stepped outside of their common ground and, even if it's just for a moment, they're on his territory now—that she's seeing a sense of belonging in his stance and his entire being that was never present in Stars Hollow—and it tugs a little bit, filling her with a bittersweet jealousy at the realization that, even without exchanging a word, she knows he's found a home here.

She knows it the instant he sees her. His scan of the room stops, and a look of surprise crosses his face, replaced almost immediately by a small smirk, as though he's shocked with himself for being surprised. Rory stands still, the grin on her face spreading stupidly, feeling like she should say something, but still unable to move or speak.

"Well," Jess finally says, filling the sound between them with sound, even if not crossing it physically. "Isn't this just a day of surprises."

His words break Rory from her stupor, and she takes a small step towards him as they begin to fall back into the friendship that's always under the surface, even though it seems like they always begin with one of them showing up unexpectedly. "I didn't RSVP. I'm sorry," she says, enjoying the fact that, for once, she's the one catching him off guard.

He recovers his composure quickly—she saw it falter even though he never really let it slip in the first place—and jumps into the small talk. "Nah, this isn't an RSVP kind of thing. Showing up's cool."

"Good thing," Rory smiles, looking around them one more time. "So this is Truncheon Books."

"Yeah, this is Truncheon," Jess says, as close to beaming with pride as Rory has ever seen him.

"I like it." She hopes the sincerity in her voice is coming through, because of all people, she wants to be the one least likely to give lip service to liking the place. Even in just a few minutes, she can see how important it is—how needed this place is—and she wants Jess to know. "It makes me feel like I instantly want to create something. Give me a pen; give me a brush," she enthuses, feeling herself get more at ease by the second. Her eyes travel around the room, watching the poet, then taking in the group of people watching him, and she sees… "Luke!" she exclaims, looking inquisitively at Jess.

He laughs, probably as much at the expression on her face as anything. "Yeah, there's a definite, 'Jess Mariano, This Is Your Life' vibe here today." The poet finishes, and a burst of applause fills the room, and Jess gestures with his head for her to follow him to a painting that had drawn Rory's eye from the moment she walked in the door.

"Hey, Luke," Jess greets him as they approach.

Luke is staring at the same painting, a combination of annoyance and amusement painted on his face. "Bicycle?" he asks, jerking his head towards it.

Jess smirks, and Rory gets the distinct feeling that this has become a guessing game, but she's not sure even Jess knows the answer. "No."

Luke turns away from the artwork, taking in a breath to answer Jess, but it's exhaled as an awkward, "Hey… Rory, what are you doing here?"

He suddenly seems uneasy, and Rory can swear she sees a flash of guilt cross his face. Strange. "Same thing you're doing here," she says, nodding slightly towards Jess with her head.

A young girl approaches Jess, holding a copy of "The Subsect" in one hand, and Rory steps back slightly, trying to push Luke's strange reaction from her mind, curious to see Jess interact with a fan, maybe sign an autograph. Instead, the girl looks straight at him and says, "Your books are really easy to skim," and Rory has to bite back a laugh as she watches Jess closely for his reaction.

"Thanks," he says dryly, "that'll make a nice blurb."

"I was gonna take off, actually," Luke interrupts, moving slightly toward the door.

Jess holds up a hand to stop him. "I gotta get something. Don't leave until I get back. I'll just be a minute," he says, backing away toward the stairs, waiting for Luke to acknowledge his request.

As Luke talks with Jess, Rory feels a pair of eyes scrutinizing her. "You have a great face," the girl says, still standing in their small cluster of people.

"Thanks," she replies brightly, smiling at this girl with the bold glasses and the blunt wit that, right off the bat, reminds her of a younger, slightly softer Paris. "So do you."

"Yeah," Luke pipes in nervously, "uh, Rory, this is April."

"Oh, April." Rory's tongue suddenly feels thick, and she forces herself to smile, reminding herself that not ten seconds ago, she thought this girl was kind of funny, and reminded her of a long-time friend. "Hello there, April," she says, keeping a pleasant smile on her face.

"Hi," April replies.

"The famous April," Rory continues, trying to make her mind catch up with the facts—with the person—right in front of her.

"I'm famous?" April asks, and a spark of the twelve-year-old that she is, interest piqued by someone's knowledge of her, shines through, despite her personality seeming older.

"Kind of," Rory hedges, looking at Luke to explain, since April obviously has no clue who she is.

"April," Luke says, picking up grudgingly on her hint, "Rory's, uh, an old friend."

April looks at Rory more closely. "She doesn't look old."

"I mean, I've known her well since she was your age. She's from Stars Hollow." Okay, Rory thinks—this is a roundabout way of getting to the point. "She's actually the daughter of the woman I'm with, my fiancée, Lorelai—you met her that one time." By now, she's nodding her head inanely, agreeing with Luke because she has no other option, but wondering what on earth he's doing—why he's rambling like a Gilmore. "It's kinda complicated," he finishes, trailing off.

"I'll say," April comments, giving Luke a strange look that probably mirrors Rory's own. Not really, it's not, Rory wants to tell him. _Stepdaughter-to-be,_ she thinks. Is that so difficult? The same thing that April is to Lorelai, but she keeps her mouth shut, even though the comparisons are glaringly obvious.

"You probably want to get back to that boyfriend of yours, right?" Luke asks April, trying to edge towards the door, or at least out of the awkwardness.

April rolls her eyes, and Rory's actually kind of impressed—that's quite an eye-roll. Even better than the ones that she and Lane used to practice, trying to see who could get the greatest circumference. "He's not my boyfriend," she protests, then emits a "Geez" that sounds so much like both Luke and Jess that Rory has to laugh, and any lingering dislike she wants to feel for this girl fades. With a "geez" like that, there's no way she's not related to either of them, and somehow, that single syllable worms its way into Rory's heart.

Jess reappears, taking Luke off to the side, leaving Rory and April alone, and Rory's suddenly very thankful that April doesn't seem to recognize or acknowledge awkwardness.

"Luke says 'geez' like that all the time, too," Rory says, grinning a little. "So does Jess—you sound just like them."

April flushes pink. "Really?" she asks, sounding very pleased.

"Really," Rory confirms. "You say it just like him."

"So…" April begins, hesitating for the first time, "you've known Luke a long time?"

"Since I was a kid," Rory says. "He's been feeding my mom and me for years, fixing our house… he's a good guy," she tells the younger girl.

"I know," April says. "He lets me do homework at the diner, and he's coming on my class field trip, even though he's so obviously clueless about seventh-graders. My friends started calling him Hagrid," she informs Rory matter-of-factly, and Rory giggles.

"That sound about right," she replies, then gets an idea. "Hey, April," she says, digging into her purse until her fingers wrap around her camera, "can I take a picture with you?"

"Really?" April looks pleased, and her hand quickly moves to adjust her glasses on her nose, flitting up to her face and back down again so quickly that Rory almost thinks she imagined it.

"Definitely," Rory grins, wrapping an arm around April's shoulders. She stretches out the other arm in front of her, holding the camera level with their faces, and grins, pushing the button and blinking rapidly after the flash blinds them both.

"You've got a boyfriend?" she asks as they wait for the picture to show up on the display.

"No!" April protests, leaning in to see the picture. "Cool," she says, looking at it closely. "Can I give you my email address so you can send me a copy?"

"Sure," Rory agrees, pulling out her daytimer and a pen so that April can write it down.

"I just told Luke that I might, maybe, like this guy in my class," April says as she writes, not making eye contact with Rory, "and he's blown it completely out of proportion. And now, because he's on this trip with us for a week and a half, every time I say anything to Freddy, Luke thinks that I want to marry him." She hands the planner back, and Rory tucks both the book and the camera into her purse, laughing inwardly at April's tirade, thinking that it's probably not the best time to tell her about Luke's reaction to Dean. Or Logan. Or even Jess, his own nephew, for that matter.

"All I said was that I realized it was a mistake as soon as I said it," April is saying as Luke and Jess approach them again, and Luke and April make their way out the door. There's a flurry of goodbyes and good lucks, and a little guilty twinge in Rory's stomach for liking April so much when her mom hasn't even officially met her yet, and then they're gone, and she's left wondering if the entire thing was just a weird dream, because it all seems so surreal. But then Jess turns to her with an odd little laugh and a shrug, and she thinks that he finds it as weird as she does, and she feels less alone in all of it, and she's pretty sure they'll all figure it out eventually.


	16. But I Like Her

**Author's Note:** Thanks, of course, to **adina**, for pushing me through the crazy writing spree, for keeping me entertained while in the internet-less world, and for letting me get excited about Truncheon and not laughing at me when my Arts Admin training came shining through in all its glory.

* * *

**16: But I Like Her **

_Jess_

Jess walks away from Rory, Luke, and April, still not quite sure he's not dreaming the entire thing. "Jess Mariano, This is Your Life," indeed. He takes the stairs two at a time, hoping that it's not buried under a pile of books or paperwork, thankful that at least it's in his room, not in his desk, which would be impossible to get to with everything arranged the way it is downstairs.

Digging through a stack of books and envelopes on his nightstand, he comes across the one he's looking for—a square, white envelope, thick with a card inside, that he's held onto for several weeks now but never mailed. Holding out hope, he thinks—hoping that Luke would be here today, and he could hand off the envelope here, where it's more appropriate than anywhere else. He would have mailed it if Luke wasn't here tonight, but he's glad he doesn't have to

It feels heavy in his hand as he carries it down the stairs, the weight of five years resting in an envelope in his palm, and it'll be nice to pass it on, to change the undertones of their relationship again.

He's not sure what had prompted him to write the check in the first place. He knew that he owed Luke, but maybe it was just the realization of what it took to be an entrepreneur and keep his own business afloat. And granted, Luke was much more established than any of the guys at Truncheon, but it was the first inkling that Jess had that Luke may have sacrificed something for him—that he may have given more than just the time, energy, and emotional effort that it took to keep Jess alive.

To be honest, if he could calculate everything he owed Luke—not just the money, but everything else, too—the total would be more than Jess could ever repay. Everything he was too much of a punk to appreciate at the time comes rushing back to him every time he stops to think about his relative success, and he realizes just how impossible this life would have been without Luke.

Rory, yes—her belief in him was empowering and freeing, but Luke made it real in a way that, as much as Rory may have cared about him, she couldn't. Luke put a roof over Jess' head, kept him fed and clothed, tried to give him restrictions, and gave him more chances than he deserved, and between the two of them, Jess found the motivation to do something bigger than he'd ever let himself imagine.

Maybe that's why, despite his own misgivings, he'd let himself get so involved in Rory last fall. Why he'd opened his mouth and said something, unleashing all the frustration and annoyance on her. Because when she saw it—when she started to turn herself around the way he had—maybe that had been the first step towards repaying her, just a little bit. Maybe it would start to even things out.

But Luke…Jess has never been sure where to start with Luke, and finally, he decided to just sit down and calculate what he owed. Starting with the money is as easy a way as any, but he hopes it'll say something. Make a statement, something that goes way beyond the money itself. It's the only way he knows to say thank you; the only way big enough to matter, and yet he still feels like it's not quite enough.

He approaches the trio, making eye contact with Luke. "Hey," he gestures with his head. "Come here." Luke follows Jess off to one side, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the two girls.

Jess holds out the envelope, waiting for Luke to take it out of his hand. "What's this?" Luke asks, turning it over and pulling open the flap.

Jess waits until Luke pulls out the card and opens it up. "It's what's owed," he says simply, letting the gift speak for itself.

Luke reacts immediately, as Jess knew he would, to the check inside, even before he reads the words on the card: "Here's what I owe you—finally paying you back for the damages to Kyle's parents' house; and some room and board for my last semester of high school, when I stopped holding up my end of our deal; and for the envelopes of cash that I sometimes found in my car and tucked into my books when I barged back in on your life, and you somehow knew that I needed the money make it one more week."

Luke holds the check in between them, as though he's waiting for Jess to change his mind and take it back. "You owe me nothing."

Jess laughs slightly, shaking his head. "I owe you. Take it." Luke places it back into the card, but still holds the envelope slightly away from his body. "If you rip it up," he warns, only half kidding, "I'm just gonna send another."

Luke sighs, and finally slips the card into his pocket. "I'm very proud of you," he says, looking Jess in the eyes and holding his gaze, not letting either one of them worm his way out of the moment. "Of this," he gestures around the room, "of what you're going for here. I don't get all of it," Luke looks pointedly at the abstract painting from earlier, "but I'm me."

There's a moment of comfortable silence before both men simultaneously initiate a hug, strong and genuine, as equals, without the pretense of a handshake or a "manly" moment first, and suddenly, Jess realizes that's what it's about. It's not about the money—Luke really doesn't care, he knows. It's about becoming—being—a man and owning up to his mistakes, and if two grand is the way to make up for that, then that's the best place to start.

April and Rory are still deep in conversation as they make their way back over to them, and April seems to be in the middle of a story. "…all I said was that I realized it was a mistake as soon as I said it," she says, and Rory, who's been listening intently, catches Jess' eye and grins slightly.

"We should get going," Luke says as they approach, interrupting April's story.

It turns into a bizarre, slightly awkward round of goodbyes and good lucks, April and Rory having apparently bonded somewhat in the few minutes that Luke and Jess were talking. Finally, April and Luke leave, and Jess looks at Rory and laughs a half chuckle that doesn't even begin to encompass the oddity of the situation, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at them in a 'Can you believe that just happened?' gesture.

She laughs in return, her eyes darkening slightly. Whatever awkwardness he feels about the April situation, hers is even more pronounced, and Jess feels slightly responsible, even though he had no way of knowing that both Luke and Rory would actually respond to the invitation, let alone that Luke would bring April. Oh well, he thinks—it's over now, and everyone's escaped with all limbs intact, although that doesn't say anything for the fallout that's most likely still to come.

"So, you here alone?" he asks, changing the subject, and immediately kicking himself for sounding so obvious—but he wants to get it out of the way from the start. He hasn't seen anyone else with her, but he's just got to make sure that she didn't drag Paris or Lane here with her or, worse, come with a date.

She snaps her head back around, looking back from the door, where she's been watching Luke and April leave. "I guess," she replies distractedly, smiling and focusing her attention back on him.

Not quite the enthusiastic answer he was hoping for, but he'll take it. "Cool," he replies, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face. "C'mon," he directs, cocking his head to the side and motioning for her to follow him back out into the room.

She falls into step beside him, and he guides her around, giving a similar tour to the one he'd given Luke earlier in the evening, pointing out the workspace, the gallery, their books, the stairs up to the apartment—all things he knows she's taken in already, but it grounds him to explain them to her, and it's gratifying to watch her expressions as he shows her where he _is_ these days. "Drink?" he offers as they pass by the food table, and she laughs a little as she accepts the bottle of beer from his hand and grimaces slightly as she takes the first swig.

"I knew there was a reason I don't drink beer that often," she says, wrinkling her nose. "But I am kinda hungry," she hints, eyeing the picked-over spread of snacks, and he smirks, handing her a paper plate.

"Leave some for everyone else," he teases.

"No problem," she grins, turning to make a face at him over her shoulder before filling her plate. "You've got a few too many veggie platters here for my liking."

"Well, some of us try to eat healthy," Jess says, following a few paces behind her as she piles on some crackers, cheese, a couple of desserts, a few vegetables—remarkable restraint for a Gilmore.

"You're not having anything?" she asks suddenly, turning around as she nears the end of the table.

"Kinda have to keep my hands and mouth free," he shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"What?" Her head whips back around and she stares at him, eyebrows furrowed.

"Because of the open house," he clarifies. "I'm kind of on call tonight—can't stop and relax quite yet. We've hopefully got a lot of new contacts—customers, potential artists, buyers, store owners, booksellers—here tonight. People I might need to talk to, and it wouldn't look very professional to have a piece of broccoli stuck in my teeth or sticky hands, or something like that."

"Oh." Rory flushes slightly, a slightly self-deprecating smile crossing her face. "Do you need me to let you get back to work?"

He grins, motioning towards the door and placing a light touch on her elbow to guide her that way. "As long as we stand and talk in the middle of the room so I can keep an eye on things, and you don't mind if we get interrupted, you're not keeping me from anything."

She laughs lightly, shaking her head as she glances around them. "What?" he asks, filching a square of cheddar off her plate.

"Hey!" she slaps at his hand. "I thought you couldn't have anything to eat right now!"

He pops the cracker in his mouth, taking his time chewing and swallowing before he replies. "Nah, I just don't want to have a plate of food in my hands. Stealing yours is perfectly acceptable."

"I knew I should have gotten more," she teases, holding out her plate to offer him something else. "I'll just have to go get seconds, and make sure it's all the stuff you don't like." He reaches out to take a cookie, but draws his hand back when Matthew approaches them, accompanied by a tall, thin man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair and thick-rimmed glasses that almost seem too big and out of place on his lanky body.

"Jess," Matthew calls, and Rory winks at Jess, taking a bite out of the cookie he was going to nab. He shoots her a playful glare, then turns back to Matthew.

"Jess, this is John Fredericks—he and his wife own Scripps Books in Baltimore. John, Jess Mariano, author of 'The Subsect,' and one of the partners in Truncheon."

"Nice to meet you," Jess says, shaking the man's hand, then gesturing towards Rory. "And this is Rory Gilmore, an old friend from high school." John shakes Rory's hand, and Matthew nods slowly, shooting a glance between Jess and Rory as John begins to talk. Out of the corner of his eye, Jess tries to catch Matthew's eye, hoping that he won't say anything incriminating or embarrassing—or make Rory more uncomfortable—but he finally gives up and focuses on the conversation at hand.

"We have some of our books in your store, don't we?" Jess asks, giving John his full attention.

"Including yours," the man says, a smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

"I thought the name sounded familiar, but I haven't met you before, have I?"

John shakes his head. "No, my wife handles most of the author-distributed work. I deal more with the corporate accounts—getting the bestsellers on the shelves, and dealing with the larger bulk orders."

"Ah," Jess nods. "That would explain it. What's your wife's name?"

"Carla," John replies.

"Right, I think I remember your store now," Jess confirms. "Sorry—I've been to so many places that it's hard to remember what each one looked like or who I met. I know most people now by their voice on the phone, and without my contact sheet, it's hard to remember."

John laughs. "I bet. Before we opened the bookstore, I tried to distribute my own book, and I certainly empathize. It's not an easy job."

"No," Jess laughs. "I spent two weeks on the road, trying to get the book on as many shelves as possible. That was six months ago, and it's just now starting to pay off with re-orders and more stores wanting to carry it." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rory standing awkwardly on the outside of their conversation, Matthew having left to talk to another journalist. He turns slightly, subtly opening up the circle to include her a little more.

"We're hoping to carry some more of your authors' books," John says. "Carla was very impressed when you came to the store, and every time we've dealt with someone from Truncheon, on the phone or in person, we've been very pleased, and we wanted to make sure we're not missing out on any other books that we should be stocking."

Jess manages to retain his composure, nodding his head and smiling through the entire conversation, but this is the part he can't quite get used to. He knows that these contacts are important and they come to these open houses to be impressed, but he still feels slightly awkward and gauche when it falls on his shoulders to impress them. Even when he finds out that his work in that area is already done. Maybe even especially then. "Well, of course we'd be happy to figure something out—let me give you a card," Jess says, reaching into his pocket and coming up empty. "I don't have one on me," he grimaces, ready to shoot himself for not being prepared, and makes a mental note to leave out one of those card holders beside the book displays at the next open house. "Let me go get one."

John nods in agreement, and Jess makes his way quickly to the pile of desks on the other side of the room, thankful that his is relatively easily accessible, with the drawers facing out.

"I agree," Rory is saying when he returns. "Unique, concise, thought-provoking… and I'm not just saying that because I know him!"

John and Rory both laugh, turning to acknowledge Jess as he returns.

"Here you go, John," he says, handing him one of Truncheon's cards that he's written his name and email address on the back of.

"Thanks, Jess," John replies, tucking it into a leather-bound daytimer. "I was just telling… Rory, is it?" Rory nods, and he continues. "…Rory how much I enjoyed reading your book. It's excellent, Jess," he says, taking Jess' hand again and clapping him on the shoulder, "and so is everything you and the others are doing here. This place is unique, and I wish you all the best in it."

"Thank you," Jess nods, a genuine smile crossing his face, even as he shifts from foot to foot, slightly self-conscious at being praised with Rory standing so near. Seems like he still wants to impress her after all. "I'll look forward to hearing from you or your wife sometime soon," he says, smiling.

"You will. And you," John says, turning to Rory. "You said you've known him since high school?" She nods, a mischievous smile on her lips. "Take good notes," he tells her with a wink. "You can write the tell-all bestseller when he's rich and famous."

All three of them laugh out loud, and as John walks away with one last goodbye over his shoulder, Rory's laugh fades into a sigh, and she stares at Jess with an unreadable expression on her face. "What?" he asks.

"Everything," she flounders slightly, shrugging and gesturing to the room at large. "This fits you. I've never seen you more in your element. You're all grown up," she teases, a wistful tone in her voice, reaching up with her free hand to pinch his cheek.

He fights the urge to lean into her hand, wrinkling his nose and playing along with the goofy charade instead, letting her shake his head violently from side to side.

"And—" she says with a start, releasing his face abruptly. "What was that all about—'she's an old friend from high school'?"

"Would you rather I introduce you as my cousin?" he says deadpan, watching her out of the corner of his eye for a reaction.

"Your…" she stops, thinking, and then her face goes red as she makes the connection. "Oh."

"You and Lorelai never thought of that?" he asks her with a smirk.

"You did?" she counters.

"Luke figured it out," he explains. "And then he felt it was his God-given right as my uncle to tease me mercilessly about it for weeks."

Rory laughs, more of a groan than a giggle, and hides her face in her hand, then runs a finger down the bridge of her nose. "You're right. That _is_ too creepy to even think about," she says, but the shadows that cross her eyes belie her casual, humorous words as she looks sideways at him, almost waiting for something.

"What?" he asks again after a few seconds, more firmly this time.

"It's just… weird," she says vaguely, shrugging her slim shoulders.

"I need more to go on than that," he says, guiding her out of the main flow of traffic and off to one side. "What's weird? The food? Truncheon? Hanging out with me? Being my cousin-to-be? The fact that you suddenly felt the urge to act like my mother?"

"Liz?" she asks, wrinkling her brow at him.

"She used to pinch my cheek like that when I was really little, and I hated it. I'd run away and hide in the bathtub," he says wryly, rubbing the spot.

"Oh," she replies, distracted. "Sorry."

He brushes it off, reaching out to touch her elbow lightly, recapturing her attention. "It's okay," he reassures her. "So what's weird?"

"Today," she says simply. "Coming here, seeing you, watching you be… you're a professional, Jess! We should put you on display and make everyone in Stars Hollow come watch you work, and then maybe they'd cut you some slack." The corners of her mouth tip up. "That's all good-weird. It's really, really cool to see. But the rest…" she trails off, pointing aimlessly toward the door, shrugging again.

"Yeah, I know," he replies softly, leaning against a wall.

She sighs. "You hadn't met her before, had you?"

"Before today?" he clarifies. "No—Luke hadn't even mentioned her to me himself. Liz told me. I'm guessing you hadn't met her either?"

"No," she exhales, rather than speaks, looking at her feet and shaking her head. "And that's not such a big deal, but she hasn't really even met my mom, and then for Luke to…" her eyes well up, and she takes a deep breath, trying to control herself.

"'For Luke to' what?" Jess asks gently.

"To… he didn't even know how to introduce me," Rory says, sniffing a little. "He called me an old friend… 'the daughter of the woman he's with.' It was like he was ashamed of something—I don't think it was me, but it was like he was ashamed of my mom. If it takes him three tries to even call her his fiancée… that's not right." A few tears finally spill out of her eyes, and Jess rubs a hand over his jaw, sighing.

Rory takes a shuddering breath, and continues. "Even at my birthday—even when I wasn't talking to either of them, and Mom was hurting so much because of me—when I introduced him to someone, it was as my stepfather-to-be, and it… it felt right, you know? It was a good role, and even though I knew I'd hurt both of them, it was never something I'd try to cover up. It was the same as calling my mom, 'Mom.' Even when we weren't talking, what else would she be? It's the same with him—ever since they got engaged, that's what he's been. He's still Luke, but it's something more than that, too."

Jess nods patiently, waiting for her to talk herself out—he knows it'll happen eventually. Chris signals at him from across the room, and he nods his acknowledgement, giving him the 'one minute' sign.

"And now..." Rory continues, her voice tight and strained from trying to keep the tears at bay, "I know things aren't great with him and Mom right now, and I wish they'd both just deal with it, but they're not, and I can't change that. But she's still his fiancée, and I hate that he tried to get around that with April! Mom's her future stepmother, just like he's my future stepfather, and…" she finally breaks down, hunching over as a single sob escapes her, and she presses a fist to her mouth to muffle any others.

Jess puts a hand on her shoulder, slightly awkward, just letting it rest there. If it was anyone but Luke, he'd be fighting the urge to hunt him down and knock some sense into him, forcing him to stop making Rory cry. Instead he's torn, wanting to keep Rory safe, to protect her from anyone who would hurt her; at the same time he wants to chase Luke down and make him talk, to find out exactly how he let things got so out of control. This is so much worse than he had thought it was from their emails, and he's kind of glad that he's already given Luke the check, because if he hadn't, he thinks the heartfelt thank you might have been accompanied instead by a smack upside the head.

"The worst part?" she says finally, looking up and meeting his eyes. "I like her." She chuckles silently, her shoulders shaking in what could be either a laugh or a cry. "I was talking to her, and it hit me for the first time that she could be my sister, and that was really cool… and then I realized that after five minutes, I know her better than Mom does, and that made me feel so incredibly guilty."

She sighs again, and the fight seems to escape from her body. "You done?" Jess finally asks quietly, ducking his head to meet her eyes.

"Yeah," she nods with a small smile. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He waves it off, pulling her into a friendly hug, feeling some of the tension drain out of her body. Chris glares at him over Rory's shoulder again, gesturing madly, and Jess nods as he pulls back from Rory. "Listen, Rory, Chris is giving me the death glare over there." She looks over her shoulder at Chris, who's standing impatiently by the food tables.

"Oh… You should get back to what you're supposed to be doing," she says sheepishly, running a finger under her eyes.

"Yeah," he agrees slightly reluctantly. "We'll hang out some more after it's finished, though—if you want to stick around. I mean, if you've got to get back, that's fine, but if you want, I won't be as busy later."

"I don't have to get back," she assures him. "I can look around for a while; see what I missed with all the drama."

"You can use the bathroom upstairs if you want to wash your face or… whatever," he offers, pointing to the stairway. "It might be kind of scary, but if you're brave, it's all yours."

"Thanks," she replies, smiling a little more than before as she turns toward the stairs. "Hey, Jess?" she calls over her shoulder just as he's turning to find out what Chris wants.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," she says, her smile faltering a little, but her eyes clearer than they were.

Jess nods, watching her climb the stairs, and sighs as he turns back to his work.


	17. To Build a Dream On

**Author's Note:** Of course, I have to thank **adina** for being the greatest beta and for holding my hand through the loss and rewrite, and for this chapter, **Lady M** deserves a special shout-out for keeping me occupied while I wrote the first draft, and for spending hours as I was writing discussing characterizations and motivations, especially for Jess.

**17: To Build a Dream On**

_Rory_

A half an hour later, after a good cry in Jess' bathroom and a few minutes sitting on his couch to compose herself, Rory makes her way back downstairs. The room is louder, slightly more raucous, most of the business guests having left while she was upstairs, leaving just the artists and their friends. She clings to the edge of the room, hovering near the bottom of the stairs until Jess notices her and motions for her to join him. She declines with a slight shake of her head and a smile, and he nods and shrugs, turning back to his conversation while she begins to explore the room a little more, taking in some of the artwork and displays that she had missed earlier.

Lingering mostly around the edges of the room, she takes it all in, really appreciating the place for the second time in one evening, keeping one eye on Jess. Finally, once the room has emptied out even more and Jess is starting to clean up, she takes a copy of "The Subsect" off a stack of books and sits on a stool in the middle of the room, hopefully out of the way, and begins to read. It's comfortable, familiar—and yet, even though she's read it at least twenty times by now, it's different somehow, reading it here, even though she knows he actually wrote the book before he started working at Truncheon.

She's so engrossed in the book that it catches her by surprise when he pulls up a stool and interrupts her reading with a grin. "You know, you don't have to read it again".

She lowers the book with a slightly sheepish chuckle, turning it over in her hands. "I know I don't."

"There's _so_ many things I would change about it," he says, drawing out the sentence, a playful twinkle in his eye.

Rory nearly giggles at his inflection. "Like what?"

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "I'd… keep the back cover," he says, waving his hand dismissively, a relaxed air about him. "Everything else goes."

Rory flips the book over, looking at the back cover. "Jess Mariano learned to lie, cheat, and steal in the big city, then did time in a small town before crossing the country trying to find himself, only to find out that he'd been chasing himself the entire way. He now lives and writes in Philadelphia and satisfies his occasional wanderlust with a long road trip. 'The Subsect' is Jess' first novel."

He shrugs with a playful grimace. "Yeah, Chris and I wrote that thing in about five minutes just after I moved here, when the final draft was heading to the printers, and they needed everything yesterday, if not sooner. It's just something we pulled out of our asses at the last minute."

She laughs, tapping his leg with the spine of the book. "Nope. No going back now. That's the one thing you said you wouldn't change about it. So either you're incredibly narcissistic about your bio, or you just like the pretty picture."

He laughs, running a hand through his hair, twisting his neck to see his reflection in the darkened window as he exaggerates his preening, brushing his hair back from his ears and arranging each strand carefully. "It's one of my better ones, don't you think?"

Rory studies the back of the book, screwing up her face as she examines the professional portrait, not that she hasn't examined every detail of it a hundred times since she got the book. It really is a good picture—he looks more adult than any of the few pictures she's seen—kept—of him. It somehow captures a hint of skepticism and defiance in an odd combination with a spark of humor in his eyes and the upturn of his smirk. It's not until Jess clears his throat that Rory looks up, realizing that the playful expression on her face has faded, and she's just staring at the picture.

"Uh," she flounders, feeling her face turn red, "you know why I love your book?"

Jess lets her change the subject, watching her carefully as she turns the book back over so that the picture is facing down. "Why?"

She thinks for a moment, trying to put the feeling that comes over her every time she reads it into words. "It doesn't remind me of anything." They're his words, and it's a feeling of getting into his head, a place that had so often felt elusive and impossible even for her to navigate. But she can't say that, so instead she settles on, "It's not a rip-off; it's just you."

He grins, scooting the stool a little closer and tapping her on the knee. "High praise, Miss Yale Editor."

She raises an eyebrow, a little surprised that he remembers the passing reference to the editor coup from one of her emails. "Yeah, I don't get to write as much as I would like. I'm mostly assigning and motivating, rewriting, hand-holding."

"And you love it," he prompts, nudging her once more. "Every minute of it. Come on, tell me you don't."

Rory smiles, biting her bottom lip. "I do," she admits, still a little surprised, still reveling in the knowledge, that she can love something a little different than she'd always thought—that her dreams can change and she can still love it. "I do love it. It's exciting."

He studies her face for a moment, making eye contact and not letting her look away. "You look happier than when I saw you last—seems like Christmas was pretty tough for you."

"It was," she nods, "and I am." She swallows, throat suddenly dry, as he scoots even closer, bumping his knee between hers, up against the edge of her stool.

"So…" he pauses, searching her face again. "You fixed everything?"

Rory grins, a tiny laugh bubbling to the surface. "If you mean, 'Are you and Logan over for good, Rory?' then yes, I fixed everything."

The corners of his mouth turn up, and his eyes go soft, telling her that she was right in her assumption. "I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah," Rory whispers as he leans in, closing the distance between them, "me too."

Suddenly, his lips are on hers, and she's tasting him again, leaning in, surprised that he tastes exactly the same as he did three years ago; surprised that it's been three years since she felt his lips on hers; surprised that even without knowing, she would know him by the shape of his lips and the taste and smell and essence that are exactly the same. Surprised that her mind is working that coherently.

His fingers tighten on her elbow, and it's surprisingly intimate, this brush of his hand through the fabric of her shirt. Their knees are bumped together, pressed against each other's stools, and as his tongue gently, tentatively traces the outline of her bottom lip, Rory gasps and sits back suddenly, drawing away.

"What?" he asks, his hand still on her arm.

She closes her eyes drawing a deep breath. "I… I wasn't expecting that."

"Oh." His hand leaves her arm, and her eyes fly open at the absence of his touch.

"No, not bad… just… unexpected," she repeats, unable to find a better word.

"Unexpected?" he repeats, his voice edging closer to a monotone with every syllable. He stands, turning his back to her, and begins arranging a stack of books on a table.

"Jess," she begs, crossing to the other side of the table so she's facing him again. He doesn't meet her eyes. "Jess," she repeats more firmly, making him stop and look at her.

"No, it's okay," he says. "I get it—you didn't want me to kiss you. It's fine."

"No!" she exclaims. "That's not it. It's just that…"

"What is it?" he asks. "Did you, or didn't you?"

"Yes—I mean… I wasn't expecting it—"

"I got that much," he interrupts flatly, all traces of the earlier levity gone from his tone.

"—But it wasn't a bad thing," she finishes. "I just…"

She doesn't know how to tell him what she wants to say; doesn't know why the words running through her brain refuse to come out of her mouth. That she's so proud of him, that watching his life makes her believe in change. That every time she's been around him lately, she's felt safe, like someone was looking out for her, risking something to make sure she's okay. That no matter what else happens, she's glad to be his friend again; that he makes her hope, that he makes her remember that the best results can come from the worst falls.

"It's not bad," she reiterates, "but it's…"

Jess sighs heavily. "But."

Rory sighs, sitting down heavily on a nearby chair. "What you've done here is amazing," she starts, looking pointedly around the room and then meeting Jess' eyes again. "Every time I see you, you surprise me—a little bit more of you opens up. Everything you did—you took everything that people said you couldn't do—would never do—and you proved them all wrong."

Jess leans on the table, bracing himself with his hands, shifting from foot to foot, still looking at her skeptically. "But when I had that same kind of choice—when I could either take the easy way or put in the work—I did what everyone said I would never do," she continues. "I forgot myself. And it wasn't about Dean, or Logan, or Yale, or Mitchum, or the internship, or the yacht, or anything else—"

"Dean?" Jess asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

Rory shrugs it off, waving one hand dismissively. "I'll tell you the whole story later, if you still want to hear it." He narrows his eyes at her, and she knows that they'll be talking about it later, but she's not finished. "It wasn't about them—it was that I let them be more important than they really were." She looks down at her hands, her fingers twining into tight knots in her lap. "I didn't change," she says. "I know it looks like I did, but I still knew exactly who I was—I just forgot that I actually had a say in being myself."

She looked up again, smiling slightly, and his expression softens a tiny bit. "So… when I came here, I was coming to see you and Truncheon, and I never expected you to… I mean, it really surprised me, and I don't want to…" She takes a breath, flustered. "I'm not trying to presume that you'd want to… and even if you did want to kiss me again, that it would mean… or that you and I would—"

"Rory," Jess cuts her off, finally letting one corner of his mouth tip up in a smile. "I wouldn't have kissed you if I didn't want to try again."

"Oh," she breathes, closing her eyes to regain her composure. "Okay." When she looks at him again, he's not smiling any more, but his eyes aren't drilling holes into her either, and she takes comfort in that. "So—the thing is, I don't want to mess it up, because if we screw this up, I don't feel like we're going to get another chance. And I don't want to waste time like that. But I'm just not ready yet."

"You can't put a time limit on this," Jess warns, hoisting himself up onto the table. "It won't work to say that we're going to 'see how it goes for three months,' or make some sort of arbitrary judgment call like that."

"No, no," Rory hastens. "That's not what I'm saying. I want this—as much as you do. But I want it to be right."

"So, then, what are you saying?" he asks, leaning back on his hands.

"I'm not sure," she admits. "I just know that I like us as the friends we are now—I like hearing from you, and emailing you, and knowing how you're doing—but I want more than that. I want to talk to you on the phone a couple of times a week; hear from you more than just an email every week or two, or when there's some sort of major crisis that we're both stuck in the middle of; see you more than when we happen to run into each other when we're both in Stars Hollow. I don't want to lose that if—when—we become something more than friends again."

"Okay." He leans forward again and crosses an ankle over the opposite knee. "I'm not trying to give you an ultimatum," he says slowly, "but what if that just becomes too easy—too convenient? I can't get stuck there—I can't wait around forever, just to find out that you'll never be at a place where you can be with me again."

Rory shrugs, letting the corners of her mouth tip up. "You know me," she says simply, "and I'm pretty sure you can tell when I'm half-assing it. Just like I can tell when you're being stubborn for no real reason." She laughs at the surprise that crosses his face. "Come on—you know I do."

"Yeah," he says slowly, shaking his head at her. "But it's weird to hear it put so bluntly."

She shrugs. "I'll try not to abuse my power. But just tell me," she states. "Kick my ass if I start to run away from you, and I'll do the same thing for you. And talk to me—and make sure I talk to you." She smiles fully, bumping her knee against his foot. "We'll know," she says simply.

Jess sighs, pushing himself down from the table and sitting on the stool in front of her again. "So, friends?" he asks with a slight sigh.

"For now," Rory nods, squeezing his knee. "So—" she grins, exhaling a huge breath, "that means that I want to hear everything. About this place—all the dirt you didn't tell me before—about your next book… because you're writing a new book—you'd better be! And about your roommates, and the whole story about how you got here in the first place, and how you got from New York to Philly, and… I've got so much I want to tell you, too—remember how I sent you that change of address email? Well, let's just say that Paris and I aren't living together right now, and it all blew up in a Paris-worthy meltdown, to say the least. Put it this way. The story involves a hotplate, a hallway, and everything I own." She stops, the grin on Jess' face finally registering as he begins to chuckle out loud at her abrupt change of subject.

"But first, let's order pizza," she states. "I'm starving."

"You just ate!" Jess protests.

"No," Rory contradicts, "I only ate half of what was on my plate, because someone," she kicks playfully at his foot, "ate half my food. Besides, that was hours ago. And it was vegetables." She gets up and crosses the room, picking up the first phone she sees on one of the desks. "Pizza," she demands, handing the phone to him. "Pretty, pretty pizza."

Jess laughs, taking the phone from her hand and putting it back on the desk. "Takeout menus are upstairs," he says. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't _actually_ live in the office."

"Well?" she asks, pushing him towards the steps from behind. "What are you waiting for?"

Jess laughs as she propels him towards the apartment door, but as they reach the bottom of the stairs, she stops, turning around to look at the empty office, the debris of the open house still evident in the garbage bags waiting to be taken outside and the haphazard arrangements of the desks that will be put back in place the next day.

"Jess?" she says, her back to him.

He stops, one step above her, and his eyes follow hers around the room. "What?"

She turns around, wrapping her arms around his waist. A sharp shiver runs down her spine when his arms encircle her shoulders and she feels him rest his chin on her head. "I'm really glad you kissed me," she murmurs into his shirt.

His arms tighten around her, and he whispers, "Me too," and she feels a gentle kiss land on the top of her head before she pulls away and tugs on his hand, pulling him up the stairs.

"Pizza!" she yells, bursting into the apartment, and Jess follows, shutting the door behind him with a sigh and a laugh, reaching into the drawer with the takeout menus before she can really even begin to clamor for them. _He's good_, she thinks, as he fans them out, pizza menus on top, followed by the other restaurants grouped by ethnicity.

When she leaves six hours later, the leftover cold pizza in hand, she's giddy from the best conversation she's had in years, fueled by no sleep and Gilmore-sized vats of caffeine. Keeping each other awake all night with stories and memories from years past and lives present has been the perfect way to dive headfirst into this new phase of… whatever they are—not to mention the fact that it's taken her mind off the craziness of the hours before the pizza. She drives all the way back to New Haven with a grin, even though she's exhausted after being up for over 24 hours—overly emotional hours, at that—straight and needs to stop three times for gigantic coffees to fuel the drive home.

So this is spontaneity. Packing up and driving out there with no pro-con list, no time to talk herself out of it, and… look what happens. Maybe she should start trusting her gut judgments a little more. She touches a finger to her mouth, still feeling Jess' lips against them, and wonders if she looks as different as she feels—if the combination of exhilaration and apprehension and curiosity is written all over her face.

Rory turns up the music, rolls down a window, and lets the cold wind ruffle her hair and numb her face, and still, the smile stays.

Yeah, this is spontaneity. She thinks she should try it more often.


	18. Not That Mockable At All

**Author's Note: **Wow. I didn't mean to take so long to post this chapter! Life got in the way, beating me senseless with moving, weddings, work, studying, rehearsals… all those fun things. But here it is. I hope it was worth the wait!

* * *

**18: Not That Mockable At All**

_Jess_

"Hello!" Rory bursts through the door in a whirlwind of energy, her purse and book bag swinging off her shoulder. He grins and holds up the "one minute" sign from his desk, where he's talking on the phone, and she nods, unwinding her scarf and peels off her winter coat, and planting herself in a chair facing his desk, unapologetically propping up her feet. Jess rolls his eyes, glaring playfully, as she digs into her bag and pulls out a folio, uncapping a red pen with her teeth, and settles back in the chair, losing herself in her work.

As soon as Jess hangs up the phone, it rings again, and he rolls his eyes with more irritation, muttering under his breath about people taking off early for the holiday and why haven't more people heard of doing that. At his grumbling, Rory peers at him over the top of her papers, wrinkles her nose, crosses her eyes, and sticks out her tongue, making some strange nonsensical noises, trying to elicit a reaction.

"You're no fun," she finally mouths as he raises one eyebrow at her, answering the phone with a completely straight face.

"Truncheon Books—this is Jess," he says into the phone, crossing his eyes at Rory and mouthing, "Sorry," as the caller on the other end begins speaking. She giggles, shifting her position and stretching out her legs, flexing her feet, before re-crossing them and settling down in the chair again.

The phone call, from the printer, wanting to double-check the holiday printing schedule, takes longer than Jess had anticipated, and by the time he hangs up nearly an hour later, he's ready to scream in frustration.

"You know," he exhales through gritted teeth, setting the phone down harder than necessary, "I'm beginning to understand why some people hate the holidays."

"And hello to you, too," Rory grins, replacing the cap on her pen and setting it on the desk.

Jess sighs. "Hi," he says, smiling, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair.

"Where's everyone else?" she asks, glancing around the empty office.

"Taking an extra-long weekend," Jess snarks, jotting down a note for Matthew to deal with after the long weekend. "They all left for family stuff last night, leaving me to deal with all the crazy people who want to tie up the loose ends today before they take off for the next four days."

"Poor Jessie," Rory teases, sticking out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

Quickly, before she has a chance to react, Jess darts out of his chair and leans halfway across his desk, grabbing her lip and stretching it out. "What did you call me?"

She giggles, the sound bubbling up in her throat and pouring out over his hand, and a grin plays at his lips, despite his efforts to keep a straight face. She stubbornly refuses to answer him, trying instead to bite his hand and failing when he manages to keep it just out of reach. Finally, Rory blows out a bubble of spit, and Jess yanks his hand away with a startled grimace.

"Rory!" he yelps, wiping the back of his hand on his jeans. "That's disgusting!"

"Sorry," she smirks, dabbing daintily at the corner of her mouth with a Kleenex.

"No, you're not."

"You're right," she replies impishly, eyes twinkling.

"What's up with the papers?" He changes the subject, still wiping the back of his hand on his jeans, poking at the stack now spread out on his desk with the pen he's holding in his other hand.

"Editing," she replies. "They haven't kicked me off the paper quite yet, you know."

"I thought you used one of those… ah, the name's escaped me… those new-fangled things, that you edit the articles without ever seeing them on paper…" Jess snaps his fingers, spreading his other hand wide, palm up. "Come on, what's it called?"

Rory tosses her pen at him and it bounces squarely off his forehead, catching him off guard. "Hey!" he exclaims in surprise, rubbing the spot. "Your aim's improved," he remarks, raising an eyebrow.

She bows with a small flourish, and Jess lobs the pen back at her, smirking when she misses the catch and it bounces off her lap and falls to the floor.

"You've been raving about this whole 'red pen' thing," she teases, leaning over to pick it up, "and I just thought I'd give it a shot." She shakes her head, an exaggeratedly disdainful grimace crossing her face. "Gotta say, Jess, it's kind of overrated."

"Well," he drawls, closing the lid of his laptop, "your loss." He leans back in his chair, fingers interlaced behind his head. "Seriously, though." He cocks his head at her. "Why the pen?"

"'Cause this is all I brought with me," she explains, pointing to the articles on the desk. "No laptop, no homework, no articles, no papers—I'm officially unplugged for the long weekend. But," she continues, anticipating his argument before he can point at the papers again, "I knew you wouldn't be able to hang up your phone for at least two hours after I got here, so I figure that as long as you're working, I can be, too."

Jess nods slowly. "I'm amazed that you managed to get no homework over Thanksgiving."

Rory laughs. "Not easy, let me tell you. I've been working my ass off for two weeks, so that I'm at least caught up, if not ahead, in every class. And I should be able to relax thoroughly and enjoy the weekend guilt-free."

"Really?" Jess picks up a manuscript and a stack of notes waiting to be added to it, clipping them together with a large binder clip. "I thought that Thanksgiving wasn't really Thanksgiving without a huge helping of guilt alongside your mashed potatoes," he says, putting the book into his desk drawer and nudging it closed with his foot.

"True," Rory muses, placing one finger alongside her mouth and nodding thoughtfully. "I _am_ having dinner at my grandparents'."

"Family guilt included at no extra charge?" Jess says, standing and motioning towards the stairs with his head.

"But at least when it's Gilmore guilt," Rory grins, following him into the apartment, "it's dressed up really cute and all its accessories match."

Jess rolls his eyes reflexively, even though she's behind him and can't see it. "Make yourself useful," he says as he flips on a light in the living room. "I'm still lost as to how this whole thing's going to work, so put that Yale brain to work and try to explain this weekend to me one more time, please."

Rory follows him into the kitchen, pulling two glasses out of the cupboard and opening a bottle of Coke, the bottle hissing as she takes off the cap. "We're each spending Thanksgiving with our family," she says, handing him one of the glasses and taking hers into the living room, and Jess can hear her kicking off her shoes before sitting on the couch, undoubtedly with her feet tucked up under her and the blanket that was draped across the couch pulled around her shoulders.

"You're no help," he calls from the kitchen, rinsing the dishes left from breakfast under a stream of hot water.

"Sure I am," she yells back, the sounds of the TV low in the background.

"No," Jess contradicts, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, leaning against the doorjamb and taking a long drink of his Coke. "If you weren't coming with me, I'd leave tomorrow, have dinner with Luke, Liz, and TJ at the diner, and come back Friday morning, and it wouldn't be nearly this complicated."

Rory leans back on the couch, arching her back over the armrest and looking upside down at Jess. "But it's more fun this way," she says, her inverted smile flipped into a goofy grin.

"Fine," he sighs, taking the remote away while she's distracted and flopping down on the armchair opposite the couch. "I still don't know what's going on, though."

Rory giggles, rolling over onto her stomach and hugging a couch cushion to her chest. "We stay here tonight. We drive to Stars Hollow tomorrow. We leave early. We leave at 7:00 in the morning. We get to Stars Hollow."

Jess groans, picking up a newspaper lying on the coffee table and covering his face with it. "Rory."

"Fine." She rolls her eyes and sits up, propping her feet on the table. "Tomorrow, I've got dinner with the Kims in the afternoon, and then dinner at my grandparents. You're doing… whatever you and Luke are doing. I'm assuming dinner with Liz and TJ?" She pauses, waiting for him to nod. "Then, that. Then, on Friday, Mom, Lane, and I are going shopping in Hartford, and you're doing manly things with Luke and TJ. Saturday afternoon is Lane and Zach's 'leftovers' potluck, and then we'll drive back out here on Sunday afternoon, and I'll head back to New Haven in the evening." She stops again, watching him closely to gauge his reaction. When he manages, with obvious difficulty, to keep a straight face, she tilts her head to the side and gives a satisfied "Hmm."

"I'm impressed you kept a straight face saying that," Jess comments, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking out in a smile.

"Well, you know, TJ _is_ very manly," she replies, catching his meaning immediately. "He… builds stuff. And wears a shiny hard hat. And…"

"That's it?" Jess questions. "Pretty weak evidence."

"And…" Rory repeats, her eyes flitting around the room as her thoughts race. "And he knocked up your mom," she finishes triumphantly. "That's manly."

Jess grimaces involuntarily, a shudder running down his spine. "Please do _not_ talk about TJ impregnating Liz. I'm going to think that the stork brought the baby, and leave it at that."

Rory sits up and folds her hands in her lap. "Jess," she begins, blinking owlishly at him, "it's time we had a talk about where babies come from. You see, when a man and a woman love each other very much…"

The corners of Jess' mouth turn up, and his composure breaks, a chuckle escaping him. "Rory..." he warns.

"It's kinda weird to think that you're going to be a big brother," she comments, flopping back down on the couch again.

"Yeah," he agrees, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "But in a way, not. It's not like I've got to share my toys or be jealous for Liz' attention or anything."

"It's like you'll be the cool uncle," Rory suggests. "You can give the kid black leather and books, to compensate for Luke's flannel and tools. They don't know what it is, do they?"

"No—Liz wants to be surprised, and I think that TJ's still getting used to the idea."

"Still? But she's due in… two months?" Her voice lilts in a question as she looks to him for confirmation.

Jess shrugs. "Something like that. But TJ just walks around in a daze half the time, 'letting out his worries,' as Liz puts it, by making stuff for the baby. The kid's already got two cradles, three change tables, and a dresser." And when he stops to think about it, it's amazing how different this child's upbringing will be from his—not that he begrudges his little brother or sister, but it's strange to think how much things—people—Liz, he admits to himself—can change in 20-some-odd years.

Rory giggles, drawing him out of his reflective mood. "Two cradles?" she says. "Are they going to alternate nights?"

"Nah, I think that Liz is just going to let him keep building stuff until the baby's born, and then she was saying something about trying to convince him to pick the stuff he likes best and give the rest to a women's shelter or something."

"Wow," Rory exhales, flipping over onto her stomach. "It's kind of weird to hear about Liz thinking about things like that. I mean, when we were in high school, she was this really flaky mess, and neither you nor Luke ever had anything good to say about her, but I don't actually know her all that well, so I never really saw her put her life back together—I didn't see it through your eyes, so for me, all of a sudden Liz is a real mom."

"Yeah, it kind of happened overnight," Jess remarks. "More soda?" he asks, picking up Rory's glass without waiting for a response and taking them both into the kitchen.

She follows, rooting around in the refrigerator for dip and digging in the top cupboard for the gummies and chips that she'd left the last time she'd visited. "No one's eaten these yet? In my house, they wouldn't last a day."

"Not everyone has your horrendous eating habits." Jess pulls open the fridge door again just before it closes, pulling out a Tupperware container of carrot sticks and a bag of grapes.

"You're eating _that_ for a movie night?" she asks, horrified.

"Not just," Jess protests. "I'll eat your junk, too; I'd just prefer to eat something with actual vitamins in it so I don't get scurvy."

"Vitamins?" Rory places a finger alongside her lips and tilts her head to the left. "I know not of what you speak. Do tell, fair sir, what doth such a thing do?"

"So," Jess says pointedly, kicking the refrigerator shut and carrying the containers into the living room, Rory following with the bags of chips and candy, "do I even want to know which movies you brought tonight?"

"_Dirty Dancing _and _High School Musical_," she grins, making sure she's in front of him before she tells him, watching his face with twinkling eyes.

He stops in his tracks, raising one eyebrow at her and pursing his lips slightly, trying to decide what to say first. "Only two?" he finally asks.

"We're leaving early tomorrow morning. I don't want you falling asleep behind the wheel."

Jess nods, satisfied with that explanation. "And… the movies?" he says, his voice sounding choked and disbelieving, even to his own ears.

"Kenny Ortega tribute. Of course, we didn't have time for all the other movies he's done—I had to leave out _Newsies_, _Pretty in Pink_, _St. Elmo's Fire_—although those last two go with a different kind of movie night, so I didn't feel too bad about leaving them out." Rory explains, putting the first DVD into the player. "Plus, there's nice happy music and pretty dancing to get us in a good mood before we go deal with family this weekend. And best of all, it's all completely mockable."

"A good mood?" Jess raises his eyebrows at her as she flops down on the couch and tucks her feet up under her.

"Yup," she grins, an impish giggle escaping her.

Jess just sighs, rolling his eyes, and begins to sit on the armchair, reaching for the remote controls. Rory reaches across the space between the two seats and tugs on his hand, pulling him off-balance so he tumbles onto the couch, nearly on top of her. "Sit here," she demands, letting go of his hand and snuggling into the couch cushions, pulling a blanket around her shoulders.

Jess sighs once more, a small smile belying his apparent frustration, and props his feet up, resting his back in the crevice between the armrest and the back of the couch at the opposite end from where Rory is lying. "Better?" he asks, starting the first movie.

"Much," Rory grins, swinging her feet up so they're resting in his lap and leaning over to grab a handful of gummy worms.

By the time _Dirty Dancing _is half over, she's somehow ended up sitting, leaning against his chest and he's barely breathing as his arms tentatively encircle her as though they're acting independently from his mind and pull her back against him, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. And when the movie ends and she gets up to change the disc, his chest feels cold as she sits up, and he waits with bated breath to see where she'll sit when she returns.

She looks at him tentatively when she returns, and he meets her gaze, saying nothing, hoping that the softness he sees in her eyes isn't just his mind playing tricks on him. As she sits back down, leaning back again gently, as though he's going to disappear if she puts all her weight on him, she tips her head up, her nose almost touching his chin.

"Jess?" Her voice is tentative, almost lost underneath the boisterous background music of the DVD's menu screen. If not for the fact that her lips were mere inches from his ear, he might not have heard her at all.

"Yeah?" He matches her tone, the moment almost reverent.

"It's been long enough." A shy smile crosses her face, and he's sure that the look on his own mirrors hers far more than he'd like to admit.

"Yeah?" he repeats, a world of hope and future in the single syllable.

"Yeah," she whispers, eyes glistening as she looks up at him and then tucks her chin down, curling into the contours of his chest as he pulls her tighter still.

And when _High School Musical_ has been sufficiently mocked, and Jess has blatantly refused to let Rory con him into learning the dance steps from the special features, and the pullout couch has been turned into a spare bed, and they're both dressed in sweats and t-shirts, they stand awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, looking at each other until Rory bursts out in giggles, reaches out, and takes both of his hands.

"G'night," she says, a wide grin on her face, stepping towards him and slipping her hands around his waist until she's so close that his arms can't bend that far around his own back and he lets go of her hands, wrapping one arm tightly around her shoulders and brushing the hair off her face with the other.

Instead of answering, he cradles her face in both his hands, drinking her in, taking his time before leaning down to kiss her softly, urgently, his lips lingering on hers and his hands memorizing her face.

When she pulls away this time, it's reluctant and dreamy, and she bites her bottom lip, a flush creeping up her cheeks as she backs into the living room, her eyes still trained on him until she goes around the corner. Jess can hear her settling down on the couch, the blankets rustling as she pulls them up, but he's frozen for a few minutes longer before he can move from where he's standing, turn out the lights, and get into his own bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin and staring at the ceiling, an uncharacteristically soft smile on his own face.


	19. Daydream Believer

**19: Daydream Believer**

_Rory_

Rory glances down at their hands, fingers intertwined, resting just beside the gearshift in Jess' car, then turns back to the window, staring at the light dusting of snow covering the tree branches as they pass.

"Deep thoughts?" His voice startles her out of her reverie, and she turns back to him.

"No," she smiles. "Just still regretting the fact that I ever tried Brian's 'day-after-Thanksgiving special.' There are certain ingredients that should never be mixed in a casserole, and cranberry sauce and gravy are two of them."

"Brave woman," Jess chuckles, tapping one hand on the steering wheel to emphasize his point. "I stuck to Luke's leftovers. At least I knew what was in them."

"Well, Brian's dish was still full! I was trying to be nice to the poor guy."

"Rory, 'nice' doesn't mean giving yourself food poisoning," he lectures. "It means taking him aside and reminding him that even though something fits into a casserole dish, it shouldn't necessarily go in. Even Lane didn't eat it, and aren't pregnant women supposed to crave weird things?"

Rory sputters defensively for a few seconds before replying, "Well, Gil's kids ate it, so I wasn't the only one!"

Jess laughs. "You're using that as your defense? 'Gil's kids ate it'?"

"I had to make my mother proud?" Rory tries again.

"If the casserole had been made of candy, sure. There were vegetables in it, though, so that doesn't work either," Jess shoots back.

"I was still hungry after Mrs. Kim's dinner, and dinner with my grandparents is always so dramatic that there isn't even time to eat?" she offers.

He pretends to consider it for a moment, nodding his head slowly. "That excuse, I might take."

Rory sighs suddenly, her shoulders lifting. "I missed dinner at Luke's this year. And last year, for that matter."

"Why last year?" Jess asks, taking the abrupt turn in conversation in stride. "Weren't you back at your mom's by then?"

"Yeah, but we had dinner at the Inn instead. And Sookie's Thanksgiving dinners are always amazing, but it… I don't know. It was fine last year, but this year was just… weird, and not just because we didn't get his homemade rolls." She shrugs, letting the thought hang in the air between them.

"You could have come to Luke's for dinner with me," Jess comments.

Rory shakes her head with a slight shrug. "It was at the same time as my grandparents' dinner this year, remember?"

Jess squeezes her hand lightly, glancing over and meeting her eyes quickly before shifting them back to the road. "I think they'll figure it out."

"How do you know?"

He smiles slightly, one corner of his mouth raised higher than the other. "I don't. But I think they will."

"I hope so," she sighs. "At least Mom's going back to the diner for coffee now—that's a start, right?"

Jess nods, his eyes shifting back and forth between Rory and the road.

"She always gets it to go, and she never hangs around longer than a minute or two, but it's a start, right? And," she hastens to add, "it's not that I want them to fix things if it's not right for both of them, but Mom is so miserable. But not in an 'I'm wallowing and not doing anything with my life' kind of way. She's going on with things as usual, but she's just… sad. It's like she's just resigned to her life being the way it is now, and nothing's going to change that for her. And maybe Luke will make her happy again, and if he can do that, then I really want them back together."

She catches a glimpse the corners of Jess' mouth turning up out of the corner of her eye and laughs ruefully.

"I know, it's crazy," she rambles. "But… I just want her to be happy. And Luke. And my dad… I want them all to be okay, but… my parents are idiots, you know, but I still love them both. And Mom did everything she could when I was growing up to make sure I had everything I needed and that I was happy, and I always knew that I was loved and wanted and needed in her life, and I guess it's my turn to pay it back." Rory stops and sighs. "I'm not even making sense anymore. I want to be an adult and live my life, but I want my mom to be happy, you know? I wish I could fix things for her, but I just can't, and it kills me sometimes to see her like that."

Jess simply squeezes her fingers again, letting that speak for him, and they ride in comfortable silence for a few miles, Rory's thoughts drifting as she stares out the side window.

This has been easier than she'd thought it would be. Granted, it's only been a few days, but she wasn't expecting their first weekend as a couple again to include a visit home, the stress of a holiday weekend, visiting family, and telling everyone in one shot. She's still not sure what she'd expected, but she had surprised even herself by telling him that she was ready. Something clicked, and the pieces all seemed to fall into place, and suddenly, there was no other option.

Maybe it's the fact that he was willing to watch _High School Musical_ with her; maybe it's was the fact Jess had been planning to go back to Stars Hollow for the holiday even before she convinced him that they should drive together; maybe it's the fact that she wanted to drive six hours out of her way just to spend more of the weekend with him. Maybe—most likely—it's the months on end of emails and phone calls and visits, catching up on all the details they'd missed. Maybe it's the fact that she feels like she has her friend Jess back, the way she'd had him in the beginning—except more. More mature, more driven, more responsible, more ready, more of everything that mattered.

Whatever it was, she had acted on it, and to his credit he had yet to comment on the timing.

"Jess?" She turns to him abruptly, a sudden question brewing in her mind.

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't Lane freak out when we walked in holding hands? Or my mom, for that matter. Why weren't they totally opposed to the idea of us dating again?"

Jess shrugs, watching her out of the corner of his eye. "Beats me."

Rory narrows her eyes at him, shifting in her seat so she's facing him more directly. "You really have no idea why they're suddenly more receptive to the idea? Neither one of them has ever been your biggest fan."

"I wouldn't exactly call it 'sudden,'" Jess says, smirking slightly. "It's been—what, three years? Four? —since we broke up. That's a long time for an opinion to change."

"Have you met my mother? Her opinions change about as quickly as a glacier melts."

"Global warming," Jess replies cheekily, smirking as Rory makes a face at him. "That, and the fact that we've been in this weird limbo for six months, so I don't think it came as a surprise to anyone. Even Luke saw it coming, and that's saying something." He purses his lips into a mock-thoughtful expression. "It's not like we were trying to deny our feelings for each other by dating other people. I think it was all pretty obvious."

"Ha," she deadpans, and then returns to the question at hand. "What changed their minds?"

"I…" Jess starts, then exhales sharply. "They'll have to tell you that."

Rory stops mid-protest and looks at him curiously. "There's something specific that they'd be able to tell me about?" she asks, not having actually thought that it was more than what he'd already said—that they'd taken their time and people had time to get used to the idea and to the "new" Jess.

He hesitates, and then nods slowly. "I think so."

"You think so? But you're not sure? How many times have you i _talked /i _ to my mom and Lane recently? There's more than one occasion they could be thinking of?"

"I didn't say that," Jess chuckles. "I just said that they might have something specific to base it on."

Rory falls silent, physically biting her lips together to keep from asking more questions, but the growing grin on Jess' face as he sneaks sidelong glances at her finally makes her break. "What was it?" she blurts, laughing along with him and swinging their hands, bumping his into the gearshift.

"I promised them half the royalties of my next book," he says with a straight face.

Rory laughs. "Do they know how little that is?"

"You think I'm stupid?" Jess retorts. "I wouldn't tell them that!"

Rory laughs again, a smile staying on her lips even as the sound dies away, and she glances down at their hands again, still slightly disbelieving that the entire weekend actually happened, that this is everything they've been building up to for the past few months, that it's finally happening. And, surprisingly, neither one of them is freaking out. Jess glances over at her again, as if he's still trying to process the same thing she is, and his eyes meet hers, both looking at their hands, and a small, wry smile crosses his face, too.

"You're not going to tell me what it really is, are you?" Rory breaks the silence, trying one last time.

Jess shakes his head with an air of finality, and Rory nods resignedly. "Okay," she says, then reaches into the console between the seats and picks up the plastic bag that had held their snacks. "We need more food."

Jess groans, raising an eyebrow at her as he pulls to a stop at a red light. "We'll be there in forty-five minutes. You really need to stop this close to home?"

"I guess not," Rory concedes, "but before we get to your house I want to stop and pick up some strawberry ice cream and chocolate chip cookies."

"Isn't that what Lane was—you know what?" Jess cuts himself off. "I don't even want to know."

Rory giggles. "Yeah, that's what Lane was craving all weekend, and between her and your mom, I got to try all kinds of pregnancy food. Surprisingly, some of it was actually pretty good. Like hot chocolate with a spoonful of strawberry ice cream melted in it, and then chocolate chip cookies dipped in that."

"That actually sounds good," Jess admits, leaning across to give her a quick kiss before the light turns green.

An hour later, they're dragging their bags from the weekend, Rory's Black Friday shopping bags, and the two bags of snacks up the stairs to Jess' apartment. "Shouldn't we leave the stuff you bought downstairs so we don't have to drag it back down for you to put it in your car?"

"We?" Rory teases. "You're around for the muscle," she says, falling into step behind him on the stairs, slipping her arms around his waist, and planting a light kiss on his shoulder. "I'm not planning to carry anything back down."

Jess turns around to face her, inadvertently swinging his duffel bag into Rory's thigh and almost knocking her over.

"Jess!" she yelps, one hand shooting out to balance herself against the wall.

He drops the shopping bags, reaching out one arm to break her fall, and when she grabs onto him, they both fall down the few stairs, collapsing on the landing, her bag bumping down the stairs and her shopping bags upending themselves and everything in them falling out. Jess watches helplessly as it spills all down the bottom half of the stairs and Rory giggles uncontrollably as they both sit, frozen, watching it fall.

Jess sighs, irritated, and pushes himself up against the wall to go pick it up, but Rory tugs his hand. "Hey."

"What?" He stops, the angle that she's looking at him from making his scowl more pronounced.

She pulls harder, pulling him off-balance, and he stumbles, taking a few steps to regain his footing. Rory wrinkles her nose at him, and he smirks despite himself, pulling up on her arm, and she laughs as she pulls even harder, bracing her feet against the wall for more leverage. Finally, Jess gives in, and falls down, even though Rory knows that he's stronger than she is and could easily have pulled her up.

"Now what?" he asks from where he lands, arms and legs tangled with hers, their hands still clasped.

"Now this," she replies, pulling him into a sitting position on the landing, so he's leaning against the wall, and turning around so she's leaning against his chest.

"And we had to do this sitting on the stairs… why?" he asks, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder and his hands tracing idle patterns up and down her arms.

Rory shivers as his hands trail up to her shoulders and spiral back down towards her fingers, and he leans into her as he feels the chill run down her spine. "Because it's so much more convenient than carrying all those bags all the way upstairs."

"You do know that sitting on a couch is more comfortable than sitting on the stairs, don't you?" Jess asks, winding a strand of Rory's hair around one finger.

"But that would mean getting up," Rory pouted playfully, one hand fiddling with the hem of his jeans, the other one tracing the outline of his hand, like a child tracing a hand for a Thanksgiving turkey—in between his fingers, up and around the tips, down the sides to his wrist and back up again.

"Good point," Jess mumbles into her hair, wrapping himself around her, his arms clasped at her waist; his legs bent at the knees on either side of her hips.

Her eyes drift shut and she leans fully into him, savoring the feel of him around her, a familiar, warm blanket that at once envelops her and makes her feel safe and at home. This—visiting family together, spending hours in the car talking, being able to sit without talking at all, sharing all the concerns and joys—could so easily become the status quo. And she feels, in a way, that thinking like that is jumping the gun, that it's too soon, that it might make him bolt, but beneath all the voices telling her otherwise, there's a quiet, still reassurance that they're finally fitting into the roles they've been waiting for.

"Good weekend?" Rory asks after a moment, twisting her neck to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"Not bad," Jess concedes with a wry grin, touching his forehead lightly against hers. "It was good to see Luke—I'd felt bad for not spending much time with him since everything happened this summer."

"Yes," Rory agrees gravely, nodding her head. "Family is very important, especially during times of crisis."

"And tomorrow I have to get back to the pile of emails and voice mails that I'm sure to have waiting for me," Jess sighs, dropping his head backwards until it bumps against the wall, his nose pointing straight at the ceiling.

"Shhh!" Rory admonishes him. "Don't talk about that, because if you do, you'll have to talk about how I have to leave way too soon in order to get back to New Haven."

"Can you leave in the morning?" Jess asks, surreptitiously glancing at the clock on the wall. "What time's your class?"

"Eight o'clock." Rory wrinkles her nose as she says it. "Can you come up to see me next weekend?" she asks hopefully, shifting slightly so she's facing him more directly.

"Probably not. I think it'll be a busy week, getting caught up from the long weekend—besides, won't you be just as busy, since you didn't take any homework with you this weekend? And aren't finals coming up really soon?"

"That's beside the point," Rory grins, draping her arms around his neck. "I was hoping for some distraction."

Jess laughs, brushing her bangs off her forehead. "No distractions," he says, punctuating his words with feather-light kisses. "Not until the weekend after, anyway. How about I come then?"

Rory pretends to consider his words for a long moment. "Well, that's a week and a half closer to finals…"

"Which means that you'll have a week and a half more studying done, and you'll feel more justified in taking a break," Jess quickly fills in, his eyes twinkling.

"How could I argue with logic like that?" Rory asks, running a hand through his hair and letting her fingers trail down his cheek and across his lips.

"And," Jess continues as Rory snuggles back into his chest, "the manuscript should be to the printer's by then, so I'll just be editing, not trying to get my own out there."

"You're that close to finishing it?" Rory asks, half into his chest.

"It's finished," he smirks, and she sits up so fast that the top of her head nearly collides with his chin.

"What?" she squeaks, turning to face him.

"Finished," he repeats, the smirk becoming more pronounced. "It's about time, too, since the publishers have been after me for almost two months to get it to them. I don't like missing deadlines like this, but those last few sentences just weren't—"

"But," she cuts him off mid-sentence, "it wasn't finished when we left. When did you have time to finish it this weekend?"

"Like I said, it was just a few sentences." He raises an eyebrow, leaning in to kiss her, but she ducks away, still staring in confusion. "I just needed the right words to come together."

"Let me see it," Rory demands, pushing herself up and tugging on his hand.

"Bossy, aren't we?" he asks, allowing her to pull him up off the floor and wrapping his arms around her waist as he leads her down the stairs and to his desk.

"You didn't take it with you?" she asks, even more confused than before. "How could you…"

Jess places a finger over her lips as he opens the drawer and pulls out the binder-clipped manuscript he had placed there before leaving on Wednesday. "Just… look at it, okay?" he says, a note of uncertainty tingeing his voice, sitting in his desk chair while Rory perches on the edge of his desk and begins flipping through the familiar pages, most of which she's already read several times.

She flips through the chapters, her eyes skimming quickly over the courier font, recognizing certain phrases and scenes that he'd read her over the phone or emailed to her when he was stuck, or that she'd marked up with his red pen while sitting out on Truncheon's front steps over the summer. She knows the story, although she hasn't read the last chapter, but as she slows down, seeing the heading for the final section, she sees Jess' head shaking back and forth over the top of the papers.

"Keep going," he says, reaching up to flip a few pages for her. She looks at him quizzically, and he just motions as though he's turning the pages of a book, still smirking. "You'll know."

Finally, she reaches the last page, with an updated author's bio on it, and, at the bottom of the page, the dedication.

Her own name jumps out at her, and it takes a moment for it all to process—she reads it three times before it makes sense.

"For Rory. Because dreams can come true, even for this rebel who never thought he had the right to believe. Finally."

It echoes in her head, the word being absorbed by her entire body as it sinks in and her eyes get damp. His eyes search her face, and his mouth softens into a smile as he leans forward, placing a hand on either side of her knees and she bends down, tracing the contours of his face with her fingertips until they spiral their way in to trace his lips, and her lips follow her fingers as she whispers into his mouth, the words absorbed into his being, too. _Finally_.

* * *

**Author's Note:** And this, my friends, is the end. It's been a great journey writing this story, examining Rory and Jess' relationships, not only with each other, but also with the other important people in their lives, and taking a look at one of the many what-ifs in the storyline.

I couldn't have done it without **adina**, and not only has she been an amazing beta, but this "new story" began a friendship that has thus far survived the "new story," a "NEW story" (which was also a slightly addled story), two MMs, many bus rides, a lot of phone calls, plenty of fun mail, and a pizza. Thanks for all of it, sweetie.

As for everyone else who has been reading and reviewing the story faithfully, thank you. I hope it's been as exciting a journey for you as it has been for me, and I've appreciated every one of your comments, suggestions, and reviews. Thank you!


End file.
